Misinterpretation, p.4
Misinterpretation, page 4
To my surprise, he didn’t come to the living room after his shower. He withdrew into his office. Would he say nothing about the Kurdish women? Would he not lament my devotion to strangers, my obliviousness? Would he not offer an apology? I stared at the ratty chair next to the bookcase. It had belonged to his family for years. He had called Housing Works about it several times, only to change his mind at the last moment and cancel, since he couldn’t stand to part with it. I called them again and scheduled a pickup appointment. Imagining his face upon noticing the missing chair made me feel a dim excitement, as if his loss would now be my gain.
The silence between us started that same night. The following day, he spent most of his time in his office and came to bed long after midnight. He woke up later than me in the morning. It was possible to avoid someone completely, even if you lived in the same apartment.
ON A CONSOLE TABLE next to the shoe rack lay a bouquet of hyacinths. The yellows and purples were rich, but it was a gentle beauty, like the unexpected sighting of a deer. The soft petals seemed fragile, easy to bruise. We’ll make it work, I thought, even though being around Billy still reminded me of a car I once owned whose check engine light stayed on. I looked for a note. He used to send me the sweetest notes with flowers, lines of poetry, love quotes. But this time the note had only my name on it. There was also an envelope nearby, on which Lina, my Albanian cousin who had won the green card lottery and now lived in Bay Ridge, had scribbled, Do you have a secret admirer, Clara? After winning the lottery, Lina had stayed with us for a few months. She had her own apartment now but came over occasionally to pick up her mail.
I laughed. Calling me Clara was an old family joke.
But why would Lina wonder if I had a secret admirer? Did she not think the flowers were from Billy? I prepared myself that the bouquet might not be from him, which seemed absurd. We had sent each other many bouquets over the years. After all, it was flowers that brought us together. We met seven years ago, during an evening continuing education course he taught at NYU. I had taken the class on a whim, wanting to break the monotony of my job at the UN. Billy had come in as a substitute, halfway through the semester. The actual professor, who was semiretired, had gotten sick unexpectedly. Billy had added new films to the curriculum. They were all foreign and low-budget, each one bringing attention to some social issue. He showed us a documentary about a child bride in Syria who, despite having a job, was sold to a man by her family; then a short about a young woman in Iraq, sexually assaulted by an older male relative; then a musical film about some gifted Roma children in Bulgaria. The stories were all poignant, but he also made us pay attention to things I didn’t normally think about, like the music, the framing, the lighting. He was just as capable of looking at reality in the face, I had thought, as of losing himself in an arty discussion.
When the course was over, I sent him anonymous red roses. The delivery guy handed the bouquet to a janitor who was friendly with Billy. The janitor took the flowers straight to his classroom, in the middle of a lecture. All the students had tittered. Since then, every Valentine’s Day, he’d send me red roses in public places.
“Who could have sent this?” I asked. “It doesn’t say.”
He seemed perplexed. “I don’t know. Could it be for your cousin?”
“They’re addressed to me,” I said, unable to hide a hint of disappointment at his assumption.
“Why did Lina call you Clara? On that note?”
“I’ve told you about the Bulgarian who was in love with my mother.”
“You haven’t.”
Billy loved Eastern Europe. During college, he’d gone backpacking through Romania and Bulgaria, a trip he told me about during our first date. I still believed his earlier attraction to me related to my accent, which reminded him of his short-lived romance with an older Romanian woman, the owner of the hostel where he had once stayed.
The story about my mother sounded fictional. The woman I was talking about, the one who had traveled through the Balkans as a gymnast, who had tightrope walked in Sofia, inciting the advances of the circus piano player, didn’t sound like my mother at all. But it had been her, years and years ago, I thought, trying to placate a sneaky suspicion that it was a made-up story, something I’d concocted to make her life more bearable in my eyes.
“The pianist’s favorite composer was Clara Schumann. He’d write letters to her, daydreaming about them getting married, a daughter named Clara.”
“Romantic,” Billy said loftily.
An uncomfortable silence followed, disrupted, eventually, by a flash of color. Cary Grant graced our wall in a waist shot. It was the same scene as in the film Billy had been watching the other night, except in color. Like Boyer, Grant was in a black suit, held a fedora in his hand, and was on the lookout for the painting. Upon noticing it, he shut his eyes and leaned back.
“Boyer’s reaction is more powerful,” Billy said. “Don’t you think? This is more surface.”
“Is this a remake?”
“Yes. Leo McCarey remade it in color. And with different actors.”
I found a glass vase for the flowers. Liberated from the string, they loosened up in their new space. I touched the fleshy petals, the sumptuous green leaves. I googled purple hyacinth, then scouted through various online forums where people discussed flowers. Some said hyacinths meant regret.
It still seemed odd that Billy hadn’t sent me the flowers. Who else could have sent them?
On our wall, bright, saturated images of luxurious ship interiors, elegant women, the blue of the Mediterranean, the charming Villefranche-sur-Mer village, all flashed by in quick procession.
I WAS IN THE TRAINING ROOM, sitting by a long table, next to other interpreters who were typing or scribbling in notebooks.
“Remember this,” the instructor said. “If the client’s trauma mirrors in any way the interpreter’s experience, the interpreter should let the therapist know and have them find a replacement.”
I glanced outside, hoping for a glimpse of sky and some clarity of mind. The weather had rendered the window useless. Tiny streamlets disrupted the layer of condensation, but nothing could be gleaned. The same question kept repeating in my mind. Should I interpret for Alfred? I had never been through any physical torture. Nobody in my immediate family had been killed.
There was a Polaroid picture of a chubby infant next to the instructor, who had just become a grandmother. Her face beaming, she had shown it to us earlier, extolling the baby’s apparent intelligence. We had all cooed in unison. But her lightheartedness had long dissipated. A grave expression had settled on her face.
She made eye contact with each of us as she talked.
“Interpreting for a family member is not recommended. Patients are likely to hide painful information from relatives.”
Alfred’s wife had wanted to interpret for him. Curious about what she looked like, I quickly googled her with my phone, under the table, while the instructor was talking. Nothing came up. Perhaps she didn’t use Alfred’s last name.
“An interpreter should only disclose things about themselves that are in the best interest of the client.”
Images of Alfred flashed in my mind. He was glancing impatiently at his watch. Shutting his eyes against the light. Twisting his loose lips into a smile.
On the other hand, wouldn’t my presence be comforting to him? During therapy, he’d have my complete attention.
“Any questions?”
“But wouldn’t it be helpful,” I asked, “for a survivor of torture to know that an interpreter has been through some rough times also?”
“A client is not a sounding board. That kind of connection is not called for.”
“What about touch?” someone else asked.
“Physical interaction should be limited to a handshake or a high five.”
Were all aspects of physical interaction classifiable? A handshake could be defiant, reverent, seductive. Even a good morning had shades of meaning. The average human ear could distinguish over a thousand differences in tone. A person had only to traipse through Manhattan for half an hour to experience the aggressivity gradient of an excuse me.
“Half an hour break,” the instructor said. “Feel free to grab some lunch.”
The training was in a low-ceilinged office inside a shabby Manhattan tower. The elevator was narrow. Mirrors covered the walls and the ceiling. Five of us interpreters had to stand intolerably close as it went down. Craning our necks to avoid breathing into each other’s faces, we endured the experience in silence. When the ride was over, we sighed with relief.
The building’s lobby was undergoing renovations. Large sections were cordoned off with yellow tape. Floor tiles had been removed. A construction worker was staring at a deep and narrow pit. Beyond the glass doors, a monsoon was in session. All morning, the rain had paused for brief periods, then returned with a vengeance. Those who had left home earlier that morning had gotten caught in it. Drenched employees now hurried through the doors shaking off their umbrellas. The wide sidewalk outside the glass doors was covered in water.
The somberness of my instructor had been contagious. Billy’s voice now echoed in my mind. You’ve fallen into a quicksand. But it wasn’t true. I could back out. Of course, I could. I knew of other interpreters. I’d find someone good. Alfred might argue about the replacement, but I would try to convince him.
The woman who picked up his phone spoke loudly.
“Vilma speaking. Who’s this?” Whatever qualities Vilma possessed, shyness wasn’t one of them.
“I’m Alfred’s interpreter. Can I speak to him?”
She launched into a spiel. “He went for a walk, thank God. Didn’t feel well. I’m happy he’s going to that therapist next week. I’ve been worried about those creatures. Is he going mad, you think? Someone needs to see him. And see him soon. We have a baby coming, did he tell you? I’ve been feeling lousy. Anxious. Headaches. He doesn’t trust many people, you know? But he trusts you.”
“I know,” I said, quicker than I intended, feeling a touch of pride.
“Wait a moment. He’s come back. Why so early, Alfred?”
“Forgot my keys.”
“Right. Of course, you did.”
She put him on the phone. He didn’t speak right away.
“Alfred, are you there?”
“Sorry. Was waiting for Vilma to leave the room.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to talk to you in private.”
“But she knows everything, doesn’t she?”
“Those creatures have started to ask me questions. They didn’t used to speak before. But they are speaking now. Why did you call?”
A siren blasted in the street. The construction guy climbed into and disappeared inside the floor opening. A foolish panic seized me. Where had he gone? Was he all right? I caught a glimpse of his hard hat. A security guard stomped into the lobby. He was soaked from the knees down.
“Stepped into a puddle,” he said. “Didn’t know it was that deep. It was deceiving.”
Another security guard handed him some paper towels. He tried to pat himself dry. “I need to change my pants,” he said. But his shift had started, so he sat down anyway.
The silence didn’t sit well with Alfred.
“Don’t back out.”
He knew why I had called. The construction worker underground was now waving his arms above his head. Another worker approached the hole. Realizing the man in the pit had no way of climbing out, he burst into laughter before dropping down a metal ladder.
“Just wanted to confirm our appointment,” I said.
“It’s next Thursday at five.”
“Okay, Alfred, see you then.”
We stayed on the phone for a few more seconds but remained silent.
“Thank you,” Alfred said finally. “I won’t forget it.”
The construction worker was out of the pit now. I took the elevator up. The instructor talked some more about her granddaughter. During the lecture, the rain lightened up. The clouds cracked unexpectedly; some sun leaked through.
A friend from my coworking place sent me a picture of a flower bouquet. Purple hyacinths. For you, she wrote. Was there a message with them? No, only your name.
The clump of hyacinths resembled the ones at home. Since they were sent to my coworking space in Gowanus, which not many people knew, the sender had to be a friend or acquaintance. But a simple Google search revealed that it was possible, even for a complete stranger, to find out my work location. My online translation profile included a mailing address where inquiries could be sent.
• • •
SINCE BILLY PURPORTED TO BE a connoisseur of fine dining, he was usually the one who chose the restaurants for our special occasions. When we first started dating, after some exorbitantly priced dinner, he’d ramble on about the flavor combinations, the sundry textures in the appetizers, the lavender aftertaste of dessert. Fine dining was a baffling diversion that hardly satisfied me. It seemed like the best kind of scam, for calling it that would be inappropriate.
The ceiling lights shifted from a buttery yellow to a pale mauve, tinting the long curtains that separated the tables. The colored lights suffused the restaurant with a romantic glow. The ever-shifting scheme prompted some expectancy, as if a surprise show were about to start at any minute. The bossa nova acoustics had a way of blurring the low murmurs and other sounds, but Billy looked up the moment I entered. He was in a beige shirt that absorbed the play of lights, his body becoming a dizzying surface.
“Red looks great on you,” he said.
“New blouse.”
“I ordered two of these,” he said, after kissing me on the cheek. He pushed a flight of sake in my direction. “The white sake is not pure; you can tell by the rice grains. Which one do you like?”
“I like the impure sake better,” I said after trying them both.
“Yeah? Me, too.”
A short essay under each item in the menu went to great lengths to inform about every ingredient and the cooking process. A waiter appeared out of nowhere, like a spectral figure. Billy asked specific questions about each dish, which he followed with an inquiry about the waiter’s own preference. None of the waiter’s eager suggestions, however, were heeded. Billy simply liked engaging the waiters, getting his money’s worth. We ordered pasta made out of mung beans, served with chunks of mock duck, then the chilled miso eggplant, and a risotto with truffles. Behind the sheer, vibrant drapes sat other couples, some on a first date, shy and hesitant. And others, so used to being part of a set that the commotion over togetherness confounded them. A man gave his partner roses. He pulled them from under the table as if he were doing a magic trick.
“I received anonymous flowers again,” I said. “Forgot to tell you. They came to my office last week.”
Billy focused on applying French almond butter to a paper-thin Italian toast. Maybe he considered it a small matter, not worth discussing. His earlier conviction that the flowers couldn’t possibly be for me seemed compatible with his lack of jealousy.
“Of course, they could have been for Lina,” I said. The waiter brought several bowls and small plates, with an artistically arranged dollop of food at the bottom of each.
“I didn’t get you flowers today,” he said. “But I did get you a gift. It’s for both of us.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve booked a trip. To Dominica. It’s all refundable within twenty-four hours, so we should decide soon. We’ll be in a resort, but it’s not cheesy or anything.”
He made deep eye contact before handing me his phone, on which was a low-angle photo of a whitewashed building amid vast sand and scattered beach umbrellas. The resort looked stunning.
“When did you book it for?”
“We leave on Thursday morning. For four days.”
The medley of shifting lights on his shirt made me dizzy for a second. I made some effort to focus on his face.
“I lied to you about Alfred,” I blurted. “He didn’t just need me for the dentist.”
He stared at me for a few seconds. He had forgotten who Alfred was.
“Oh, Alfred, right. The root canal.”
“He needs my help. At the therapist. I’ve been taking a training course to get ready for it. Mine was expired. His sessions start on Thursday. So I can’t go.”
He adjusted his glasses. Their blue contour sharpened as the lights changed. He continued drinking sake in silence. I felt curiously detached from his disappointment.
“If you read Alfred’s email, you’ll understand,” I went on. “His mother suffers from agoraphobia. She hasn’t left the apartment in a long time.”
He almost smiled, but not quite.
“She what? Isn’t that like … a conflict?”
“He’s seeing strange creatures, hallucinations. They were quiet before, but now they’re talking to him.”
“I asked you twice about it,” he said slowly. “Twice.”
In Billy’s world, the smallest lie was an unforgivable sin. But a knack for honesty or lack of it was shaped by one’s experience. His life had been like a basic grid with well-defined paths. Mine was a defective labyrinth in which going straight made it hard to reach the destination.
“You can’t stop yourself,” he told me. “I know you can’t.”
Of course, I could stop myself. But who was to say that restraint and distance was the best course for everyone? Maybe it was better to blunder, to bump into things, to make ridiculous mistakes, if that brought you closer to yourself and others. It wasn’t the right time and place for an argument, so I swallowed my objections.
“I can give a call to my old therapist. You need someone to talk to.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
It was difficult to say. I used to make fun of Billy when he took Tylenol for the smallest headache, or when he applied a bandage to the smallest scrape. But maybe these actions pointed to a deeper difference between us.
