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Claudia Serea
Olga
Her name is the same as some bras in Kmart and a brand of soup in the Russian store. She sits among the apples, gold veins showing through their skins.
She bags the rosemary bread and smiles.
This story is about a girl cursed to put breads on a shelf every day for a hundred years.
She dreamed of running away and being a supermodel.
I am not sure what happened to her. Maybe she went back to Russia to care for her ailing mother.
Maybe she sells apples in St. Petersburg.
One afternoon I climbed on the top shelf. I hid in the box with Russian tea and slept a hundred years.
When I woke up, she was gone.
I took a walk to Bryant Park. It was Fashion Week, and, from the runway, someone that looked like Olga smiled.
Let’s have dinner, love. The waiter will take your order of the American dream right there, at the exit from JFK. You’ll order the sturgeon, but you can only have the filet of sole for now.
You’ll walk on 8th Avenue past the crooks’ shops, past the seedy hotels, past the deli that sells wilted flowers to the woman who wants to read your palm and take your last $20.
Come at night, love, when the city is drenched in balsamic vinegar, when you can’t find a friend— and your waiter will serve your high hopes, chilled, your expectations on the rocks.
Honey, be sure to emigrate in time for dinner.
For me, my dear, some men did the unthinkable. Like the son of the mailman who mailed himself in a package that never reached its destination.
When I passed on the sidewalks, the male blackbirds whistled. The dogs barked and rattled against the fences.
I danced on rooftops in my mercury slippers. Midnight was just another dress I wore and rain was my tambourine.
They called me The Charmer and feared I’d give them the deadly quicksilver. I laughed at them and shook my copper hair.
One day, a crow came down from the church’s steeple and placed its feet on my face. The women gasped and covered their mouths.
Overnight, I was a hundred years old.
Closing time
Starting with page 1997, the characters disappeared one by one.
First, Bob handed me his poems, saying his stocks are doing better, so he stopped writing.
Then, Janet bought a Victorian house and moved into a Dickens novel.
The Forever-Commuter stopped forever-commuting.
One day, the French group vanished, kissing and laughing.
Fate Helshey smiled at me, and Soledad jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge.
Soon, the paintings in the Penthouse turned into still lives.
Cucina’s tables filled with noisy newcomers and Japanese tourists.
In the last chapter, there weren’t any characters left. Domingo put the chairs on the tables.
The last page was blank, half green.
Spring was coming. That’s when I invented you.
My grandmother’s garden
The corn grows as tall as the trees. The honeysuckle climbs and curls when it blooms in a rush of fragrance.
So does time.
My grandmother comes here often and sits on the bench. Evening comes, then morning, then evening again.
The shadows rotate the arms of a clock.
Then, the trees are gone, but my grandmother is still there.
Evening comes, then morning, then evening again.
The honeysuckle invades the garden.
The weeds grow tall, and, every time they rustle, she thinks of serpents.
Now she is gone, too.
Evening comes, then morning, then evening again.
Only the bench is left and the honeysuckle with its flowers that curl and remind me of her wrinkled hands.
Scenes from the hit Broadway musical “A New York Restaurant”
Scene 1 The décor shows dungeons and steam. People dressed in uniforms swarm among large pots and vegetables. No one talks, but, from time to time, the chef shouts dishes names and curses.
They work in the back-of-the-house, in the underground world of a New York restaurant.
They wear their past lives like hooded cloaks, their faces in shadow, their tongues locked in unspoken languages.
Knives in hand, they dice the mountains of celery and carve their path in the new country, carrot by carrot.
Us, the English-speakers, we joke, we laugh, we quarrel over international politics, while the non-speakers watch us with an eager smile.
Their side of the city is always dark. Their time, with swollen, sleepless eyes, is always short.
The Presenter: (Forte) —Laaadies and Gentlemeeeen! Here are the Stars of the Underground!
(Crescendo) The Busboy: a chemist from Romania! The Runner: a physicist from Ukraine! The Porter: an engineer from Senegal! The Coffee-guy: an informatics technician from Bangladesh! The Sandwich man: a political prisoner from Chile! The Delivery man, watch out for the Delivery man, he is from Guatemala, and he has seen the world!
Their side of the city is always dark. Their rooms are crowded and crusted with salt. Their unused tongues are numb with untold jokes and curses. Their time is always short, but they are so eager to be cast in the show.
Scene 4 A restaurant interior, with waiters lined up in the back.
The Presenter: (Fortissimo) —Ladies and Gentlemen, let’s get on with it, here are the English-speaking Leading Roles!
The Russian teacher, the French-Swiss chef, the Hungarian butcher, actors, actresses, dancers from Italy, Ireland, Albania. Rashid, a former sheik, and Bill from Indiana, an opera baritone who leads the waiters’ chorus:
Our side of the city is always lit. We run the marathon with two full glasses on a tray. We pirouette on skates from Eighth Avenue to Murray Hill and bring your steaks at the desired temperature. Our time is always short, but we are so eager to lead the show.
Scene 17 The Presenter (only his mouth is visible in the dark): (Sforzando, drum roll) —And now, Ladies and Gentlemen, the incomparable, the unique, give it up for the Romanian Amélie!
A spotlight travels to center stage and finds a woman with a flour-white face and a smile painted downward on it.
The Hostess: (Piano, con sentimento)
I sit people. I sit thousands of people. I walk hundreds of miles inside one room, until my feet fall off. Then, I walk on my hands. Sometimes, I carry them on my back to the table 300 on top of the hill, or I row a boat to the table 600 across the lake.
My side of the city is always smiling. My time, with swollen, sleepless eyes, is always short, and I am so eager to exit this show.
Scene 25 The stage rotates during the intermission break. Now it’s the busy, noisy Grand Central lobby, where the lights shine and the passengers sing and dance.
(Allegro ma non tropo)
It’s a polite waltz that starts with choosing the perfect table with a perfect view over life. We order a drink. We sink, alone. We order a steak. We break the meat from the bone.
One-two-three, The customer is always right. Our side of the city is bright. The coffee and soup of the day are always hot. The trains and busses are always on time. We go to work. We smile a lot. We drive back home to Camelot.
As the cast sings and dances, the stage rotates slowly. It grinds its own edge. It screeches and crumbles. Some tables, with waiters, food and customers, fall into the East River, but no one notices.
(Curtain.)
The last one to leave Romania turn off the light
1. When I grow up I will emigrate when I finish school I will emigrate when I finish college I will emigrate when I look for a job I will emigrate when I marry I will emigrate when I have a child I will emigrate when I get a divorce I will emigrate when I’m old I will emigrate when I die.
The last one to leave Romania turn off the light.
2. We are not migrant people. We don’t have a clock in our brain to tell us when it’s time to leave the country.
How do we know it’s time? The wild geese know when fall comes when the leaves emigrate from the trees.
3. We are willing to work harder somewhere else, we are willing to not speak our language somewhere else, we are willing to not speak at all somewhere else, we are willing to live underground somewhere else, we are willing to live in shame somewhere else, we are willing to have our children somewhere else, we are willing to leave our children behind, you guessed it: somewhere else.
4. Poor nations export fruits or the hands to pick or deliver them, the delivery man said, bringing oranges into a restaurant in New York City.
5. Strawberries in Spain, instead of sand castles.
Hope is a woman with crooked hands, who strikes a match somewhere in Madrid and smokes by a window.
The flicker is seen across countries and seas and signals an army to move.
It’s temporary, we say. It’s just for a while. For two years. It’s for work. It’s only to save some money. It will go fast.
6. I say, it’s a disease. It’s a collective brain tumor caused by poor nutrition. No milk, no meat, no eggs, no cheese.
The lack of protein makes the people docile but causes an unexplainable long-term longing.
For better health and easy control of the masses—no sugar and absolutely no butter.
Take away the bread and we all want to emigrate, even after five generations.
Possible side effects: blue tile in the bathroom, a new Logan car, an upgraded kitchen in the grandparents’ apartment where motherless children grow up having plenty of Play Stations, Dells, Samsungs and Erikssons.
Electronics: a measure for happiness.
7. Strawberries in Spain. Oranges in Greece. Olives in Italy. The fruit grows ripe with content, knowing it will be picked by Romanian hands.
Meanwhile, my mother-in-law’s vineyard is picked by crows and blackbirds. Rugs of apples rot under the trees in my parents’ orchard. They are too old for so much work and there is no help for hire.
Every night, my father leaves a light on, just in case I come home.
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