At America's customs border, when the officer asked my reason of coming, I said I came to watch the night take over the sky. The officer stared blankly and asked me to repeat.
‘I mean I’m in love.’
Los Angeles burst upon me with splendid expectation. Louis had arranged for a room for me in Laurel Canyon, but I couldn’t move in for the first few days, so my first few nights were spent in Little Armenia. It was the period after Christmas. The rain started to pour like hell on the day I was to meet The Fish. We had arranged to meet downtown, at the cafe. I remembered his first message to me when I was in London, walking in the rain. Now I wandered downtown streets, waiting for his message to tell me what time exactly we would meet.
At six o’clock, I needed to move to the place Louis had rented. It started to worry me. The apartment was at the other end of the city, around the corner from Mulholland drive where The Fish used to live. By five o’clock, I could wait for The Fish no longer, and hopped on the metro, deaf and blind to the city above me.
The next day I woke up in Laurel Canyon. The first thing I saw was Monte walking around the fountains in the yard. His dog by his side. I was startled at my surroundings, the strange view through the window that greeted me, the sparse, unfamiliar room with its wooden wardrobe, paintings in muddy colors and bedside table. I remembered where I was. I remembered The Fish.
At the sound of my sobbing, Monte knocked on my door and poked his head around the corner.
‘Yes?’ I mumbled.
‘Fancy eating breakfast?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘It’s gonna be eggs on toast, alright?’
‘Sure.’
‘Sunny side up or scrambled?’
‘Sunny side up.’ I tried to sound happy, but I decided it was a pajamas day. There was no point in dressing up anymore. Not if I stayed in the house the whole day. I traipsed to the kitchen, where I sat with Monte and his dog. I glanced at my plate, relieved at the lack of beans and sausages unavoidable in London. Monte had bottles of various supplements lined up on the table. He would open them one by one and swallow in a handful. I tried to look aside. On the wall I saw a portrait that resembled the young Ernest Hemingway.
‘Is it Hemingway?’ I inquired.
‘It’s a young Jackie. Jack Nicholson, my dear friend.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re right though. There is a resemblance.’
‘Do you like Hemingway?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he’s my favorite actually.’
‘I love him too. Would you mind if I used your home line? I need to make a call to a place here in LA.’
‘Not at all. It’s on the table down there.’ He showed toward the living room.
I phoned The Fish. No answer. I phoned once more. No answer. I returned to the kitchen. Monte was washing the dishes.
‘If the number calls back, please let me know. It’s very important.’
‘Someone you’re meeting?’
‘Yes. Well, maybe.’
‘I hope it’s someone smart. You’re very intelligent.’ He said.
I imagined The Fish calling back and Monte answering. The Fish loved Monte, he would probably be happy to have tea in this house, I thought. He never called back.
New Year’s was approaching and I had nothing to do. During lunch Monte proposed to have dinner together. I fancied watching his film Road to Nowhere.
‘Do you want to watch the movie right now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let me load it up.’
I followed him to the cinema room, the dog following me. We sat there, watching the beginning together, before Monte and his dog left the room. I stayed, alone, remembering the screening at Chris’ place, where I first encountered The Fish. I started to cry again.
Monte came back after the movie had finished. We then watched some local news.
‘Did you like the film?’ He asked.
‘I enjoyed it, thank you.’
I rolled up my shirt-cuffs and went down to the Arts District, determined to bump into him by ‘accident’ in some bookstore or parking lot.
A homeless couple danced on the Sixth West Street to the tune of Abracadabra. Nobody but me watched. A policeman walked back and forth. A cockroach or rat sometimes followed in his shadow. Fifth Street dissolved at dusk, the time we should have met once more passing by without incident, disappearing into the roaring Sun.
At that moment I was a little girl once more. No more a woman than Ian had been a man. I looked down at my ragged shoes with their crooked heels, which seemed so desperately silly, as I clambered after a dog walker in the Canyon.
‘Come, Piti, come, Gigi, come, Nevi, good boy, come here, good boy. Good boy. Come Pupi, come, Dede, come Niuni, good boy, come here, good boy. Good boy.’
No dog for me. Just a banana. Black and spotty like a dalmatian. Inside it was soft. People here and there. Again. A girl with an incorrect map, painted all in muddy red. Where is she? She is here, in words, by herself, waiting while walking, watching the Sun fill itself with pride, so intense yellow, outshining all colors.
At least it rained. I was soaked to the skin, but the rain hid the tears and their ever-present tracks.
‘Smile, young lady,’ said a mime, sliding his hand along my shoulder before I rushed away. He was handsome in his make-up I thought.
By the time I thought of heading back to Laurel Canyon it was far too late to do so. I huddled in a bus stop along with another woman. We began to chat, and she told me her name was Vilma. She was desperate to get home to feed her rabbit, a little brown bunny. Looking at me with pity, she asked if I would like to spend that night at her home. How could I refuse a brown bunny?
She still had Christmas decorations, garlands and little statues, all over the house. We sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, petting Succo the brown bunny. I asked Vilma why she chose it instead of a white one, and she told me it was because it was ugly, and therefore interesting.
‘What brought you to California?’ Vilma asked.
‘A man. Well, I was supposed to meet a man.’
‘Pig, he didn’t meet you?’
‘No. I mean, not yet.’ I said coldly.
‘You remind me of myself back in the days. I came from El Salvador for a man. You know, a man must be pleasant to touch at night.’
‘I know I’ve never met him, never touched him, never looked into his eyes. I love the brown bunny, his film, that’s for sure.’
‘You could die for him?’
‘Anyday. I swear. Today I left a note on a car. I was certain it was his.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘A black cadillac. It’s exactly the car I imagine him in. So I left the note on the window saying that I don’t know how I’ve come here but I know I love you. This street is nice and here my journey ends. That’s what I’ve written. It made someone’s day I guess.’
‘It’s a pity he hasn’t met with you. It looks like you’re really in love.’
Vilma’s floors were extremely cold. When she went to take something from the wardrobe she asked me to put a pair of slippers on.
‘They used to be my daughter’s. Last time she wore them was eleven years ago.’
‘You haven’t seen your daughter for that long?’
‘She doesn’t talk to me.’
‘Since when? Where is she?’
‘Since the law took her away. She lives with her dad.’
‘You never talk?’
‘No. She’s still angry. I don’t know what they’ve put in her head. You see, I was young like you. I came to California from El Salvador and married this man I met on the internet. It should have been clear from the beginning that he was a trickster. He got money from his first marriage the same way he did from me.’
Next morning I sat in the bed crying amidst the Christmas decor. After showering I noticed water pooling over the floor. It made me yearn for the ocean, but I had no energy to cross town in a bus squeezed like sardines. I left a goodbye note in the living room. The outside doors were locked. I turned the key and pushed the doors in silence.
I sat on a bench, soaked to the core in the rain, thinking of that brown bunny. A stream of desperate, orphaned phonemes looking for meaning.
At America's customs border, when the officer asked my reason of coming, I said I came to watch the night take over the sky. The officer stared blankly and asked me to repeat.
‘I mean I’m in love.’
Los Angeles burst upon me with splendid expectation. Louis had arranged for a room for me in Laurel Canyon, but I couldn’t move in for the first few days, so my first few nights were spent in Little Armenia. It was the period after Christmas. The rain started to pour like hell on the day I was to meet The Fish. We had arranged to meet downtown, at the cafe. I remembered his first message to me when I was in London, walking in the rain. Now I wandered downtown streets, waiting for his message to tell me what time exactly we would meet.
At six o’clock, I needed to move to the place Louis had rented. It started to worry me. The apartment was at the other end of the city, around the corner from Mulholland drive where The Fish used to live. By five o’clock, I could wait for The Fish no longer, and hopped on the metro, deaf and blind to the city above me.
The next day I woke up in Laurel Canyon. The first thing I saw was Monte walking around the fountains in the yard. His dog by his side. I was startled at my surroundings, the strange view through the window that greeted me, the sparse, unfamiliar room with its wooden wardrobe, paintings in muddy colors and bedside table. I remembered where I was. I remembered The Fish.
At the sound of my sobbing, Monte knocked on my door and poked his head around the corner.
‘Yes?’ I mumbled.
‘Fancy eating breakfast?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘It’s gonna be eggs on toast, alright?’
‘Sure.’
‘Sunny side up or scrambled?’
‘Sunny side up.’ I tried to sound happy, but I decided it was a pajamas day. There was no point in dressing up anymore. Not if I stayed in the house the whole day. I traipsed to the kitchen, where I sat with Monte and his dog. I glanced at my plate, relieved at the lack of beans and sausages unavoidable in London. Monte had bottles of various supplements lined up on the table. He would open them one by one and swallow in a handful. I tried to look aside. On the wall I saw a portrait that resembled the young Ernest Hemingway.
‘Is it Hemingway?’ I inquired.
‘It’s a young Jackie. Jack Nicholson, my dear friend.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’re right though. There is a resemblance.’
‘Do you like Hemingway?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he’s my favorite actually.’
‘I love him too. Would you mind if I used your home line? I need to make a call to a place here in LA.’
‘Not at all. It’s on the table down there.’ He showed toward the living room.
I phoned The Fish. No answer. I phoned once more. No answer. I returned to the kitchen. Monte was washing the dishes.
‘If the number calls back, please let me know. It’s very important.’
‘Someone you’re meeting?’
‘Yes. Well, maybe.’
‘I hope it’s someone smart. You’re very intelligent.’ He said.
I imagined The Fish calling back and Monte answering. The Fish loved Monte, he would probably be happy to have tea in this house, I thought. He never called back.
New Year’s was approaching and I had nothing to do. During lunch Monte proposed to have dinner together. I fancied watching his film Road to Nowhere.
‘Do you want to watch the movie right now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let me load it up.’
I followed him to the cinema room, the dog following me. We sat there, watching the beginning together, before Monte and his dog left the room. I stayed, alone, remembering the screening at Chris’ place, where I first encountered The Fish. I started to cry again.
Monte came back after the movie had finished. We then watched some local news.
‘Did you like the film?’ He asked.
‘I enjoyed it, thank you.’
I rolled up my shirt-cuffs and went down to the Arts District, determined to bump into him by ‘accident’ in some bookstore or parking lot.
A homeless couple danced on the Sixth West Street to the tune of Abracadabra. Nobody but me watched. A policeman walked back and forth. A cockroach or rat sometimes followed in his shadow. Fifth Street dissolved at dusk, the time we should have met once more passing by without incident, disappearing into the roaring Sun.
At that moment I was a little girl once more. No more a woman than Ian had been a man. I looked down at my ragged shoes with their crooked heels, which seemed so desperately silly, as I clambered after a dog walker in the Canyon.
‘Come, Piti, come, Gigi, come, Nevi, good boy, come here, good boy. Good boy. Come Pupi, come, Dede, come Niuni, good boy, come here, good boy. Good boy.’
No dog for me. Just a banana. Black and spotty like a dalmatian. Inside it was soft. People here and there. Again. A girl with an incorrect map, painted all in muddy red. Where is she? She is here, in words, by herself, waiting while walking, watching the Sun fill itself with pride, so intense yellow, outshining all colors.
At least it rained. I was soaked to the skin, but the rain hid the tears and their ever-present tracks.
‘Smile, young lady,’ said a mime, sliding his hand along my shoulder before I rushed away. He was handsome in his make-up I thought.
By the time I thought of heading back to Laurel Canyon it was far too late to do so. I huddled in a bus stop along with another woman. We began to chat, and she told me her name was Vilma. She was desperate to get home to feed her rabbit, a little brown bunny. Looking at me with pity, she asked if I would like to spend that night at her home. How could I refuse a brown bunny?
She still had Christmas decorations, garlands and little statues, all over the house. We sat at the kitchen table drinking tea, petting Succo the brown bunny. I asked Vilma why she chose it instead of a white one, and she told me it was because it was ugly, and therefore interesting.
‘What brought you to California?’ Vilma asked.
‘A man. Well, I was supposed to meet a man.’
‘Pig, he didn’t meet you?’
‘No. I mean, not yet.’ I said coldly.
‘You remind me of myself back in the days. I came from El Salvador for a man. You know, a man must be pleasant to touch at night.’
‘I know I’ve never met him, never touched him, never looked into his eyes. I love the brown bunny, his film, that’s for sure.’
‘You could die for him?’
‘Anyday. I swear. Today I left a note on a car. I was certain it was his.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘A black cadillac. It’s exactly the car I imagine him in. So I left the note on the window saying that I don’t know how I’ve come here but I know I love you. This street is nice and here my journey ends. That’s what I’ve written. It made someone’s day I guess.’
‘It’s a pity he hasn’t met with you. It looks like you’re really in love.’
Vilma’s floors were extremely cold. When she went to take something from the wardrobe she asked me to put a pair of slippers on.
‘They used to be my daughter’s. Last time she wore them was eleven years ago.’
‘You haven’t seen your daughter for that long?’
‘She doesn’t talk to me.’
‘Since when? Where is she?’
‘Since the law took her away. She lives with her dad.’
‘You never talk?’
‘No. She’s still angry. I don’t know what they’ve put in her head. You see, I was young like you. I came to California from El Salvador and married this man I met on the internet. It should have been clear from the beginning that he was a trickster. He got money from his first marriage the same way he did from me.’
Next morning I sat in the bed crying amidst the Christmas decor. After showering I noticed water pooling over the floor. It made me yearn for the ocean, but I had no energy to cross town in a bus squeezed like sardines. I left a goodbye note in the living room. The outside doors were locked. I turned the key and pushed the doors in silence.
I sat on a bench, soaked to the core in the rain, thinking of that brown bunny. A stream of desperate, orphaned phonemes looking for meaning.