Elzas kitchen, p.1
Elza's Kitchen, page 1
For Zita
Take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy,
And I am richer then than all my Fellow Men—
Ill it becometh me to dwell so wealthily
When at my very Door are those possessing more,
In abject poverty—
—Emily Dickinson
Contents
Book One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Book Two
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Ninteen
Twenty
Acknowledgments
Reading Group Guide
A Note on the Author
Also by Marc Fitten
Book One
One
Elza awoke alone. Alone and distraught over it. She felt distraught because, quite frankly, though she was not a woman in love, she was a woman who had grown accustomed to company at night; and waking as she had—dressed in scratchy nightclothes and supine in bed—with the bland view of her apartment’s ceiling and crown moldings overhead instead of her lover’s bristly haunches beside her, and with morning noises from city buses and trams seeping in instead of his heavy breathing in her ear or the smell of food wafting in from her kitchen, for a moment Elza wished to God that she had not woken at all, but rather had slipped mercifully into a heavier slumber—a coma perhaps—or at the very least, into an amorous dream.
While this may have been a distasteful thought to have first thing in the morning, it was no less true. Company at midnight took the edge of a busy day at the restaurant away. A bath after work. A glass of wine. A foot massage she insisted on as foreplay. And then, finally, unapologetic abandonment. Elza required no convincing in this regard, no coaxing, only the foot massage. Her feet massaged and a certain young man. A man she wasn’t in love with, but one who was just attentive enough to distract her from her day at work—their day at work, really, as they in fact worked together. This special employee possessed the added value of helping her sleep more soundly at night.
But today, this blue-skied Sunday morning, her day off, away from the bustling kitchen of the restaurant, away from her other employees—the dishwasher and the line cooks—well, even on her day off, having missed her evening company, instead of feeling cocksure, she felt irritable. Irritable and unsure . . . confused. Unsatisfied. Untethered. Fitful. Restless. Bitter? Elza considered this. Yes, perhaps even that.
She had reasons to feel bitter, for certain. It happened that Elza had walked Delibab’s Centrum alone one recent evening while window-shopping. A photographer had opened a new studio, and in this studio’s window hung well-lit and oversized portraits of the traditional middle-class variety: families gathered around their patriarch, done-up wives looking out sunlit windows, children in matching ensembles sitting on rococo chairs, the odd pet. Family scenes being of interest to Elza, particularly because she had none—parents deceased of natural causes, divorced, childless—Elza stopped to look. She examined the portraits for a good five minutes before one of them caught her eye. She gawked open-mouthed. Staring back at her was a photograph of her ex-husband—a man she thought she had loved years ago. He was seated, and a woman and two teenage girls were draped over him. She assumed this was his family. He had daughters! She looked closer. She couldn’t decide if the girls were pretty. Actually, best not to bother with them at all. She simply shook her head, looked at her ex-husband, and laughed. The idea of him sitting for a portrait seemed fitting. It was the reason they had parted ways all those years ago. He wanted things she didn’t. Like sitting for portraits, for starters. Newly wed, he had found a job in the municipal works department in Budapest and a flat in a newly constructed block of buildings. He wanted them to begin a family right away.
“You can cook for us,” he told her while she was studying at the culinary institute. “For the kids and me.”
It was their death sentence. Elza divorced him soon afterward. Eight months into the marriage.
In the photograph in front of her, her ex-husband wore a dark suit. Elza noticed his paunch peeking from his jacket. He looked content. Blissful even. Elza couldn’t help but wonder about him. It was twenty years since she had seen him last. It should not have mattered that his picture was here now, in her town. It was only a strange coincidence, care of a transplanted photographer. But still, was she bitter to see this long-lost person happy, to see that he had survived her refusal of him, had thrived, in fact, had succeeded in living his dream, and had even replicated himself? Was she bitter that he had grown into the sort of post-socialist, American-style family man who took portraits of the newly minted bourgeois variety? All toothy wide smiles and plain-spoken earnestness.
She was.
Very.
And the effect of seeing him remained with her long after. An uneasiness followed her around for days and finally settled in her dreams. She awoke regularly—even on blue-skied Sunday mornings like this one—suffering from heartburn and a sour belly, with one hand resting on her stomach. And this morning with the other pressed against her forehead. Really pressed against it, as if stuck there, as if to remind her of something important.
Sometime during the middle of the night Elza had awoken with a startled gasp and smacked her forehead with the realization that despite her professional successes, despite her popular restaurant, her material comfort, and her own newly minted bourgeois status, her life was passing her by and she wasn’t quite fulfilled. . . .
Two
Fretting was not new to Elza. It was as natural to her as breathing. Witnessing the photograph of her ex-husband was only a trigger. Elza needed challenges in her life, needed to be occupied. Without walls to climb or windmills to attack she was the type of person who became depressed. She knew this. The feeling lived inside her somewhere—probably nestled close to her solar plexus. Yes, it seemed like that was the case. She felt it right in her chest. So, to escape dwelling on her anxieties—which she was prone to do—Elza lived in a state of perpetual movement. If she slowed down or was obstructed, even for a moment, she would suffer being left alone with herself, and then all would be lost.
She pulled her hand away from her head and kicked her thin coverlet aside. She sat at the foot of her bed and reflected on her nighttime memory—which had now metastasized into a larger feeling of regret. She confirmed her feelings were sincere and not her subconscious being melodramatic, the result of having eaten a cold plate of sausage late at night. She tried to remember back to a time when she had felt concretely differently about herself.
Elza arrived at the woeful conclusion that the last time she could remember feeling truly hopeful about life was a staggering twenty years prior—when her skin was a touch more elastic, her hair was uncolored, she was newly freed from a bad marriage, and her future spilled out around her like a tipped-over bag of flour.
She blanched at this realization. Her head began to hurt again. She thought to herself, How could it all have blown away so quickly?
A mirror standing in the corner reflected her face: an aging divorcée with crow’s-feet at her eyes and lines around her mouth. Years of missteps had taken their toll on her face, she thought. Then came a litany of other faults: She was always a few bills short. She always compromised on the clothing she wore. She was irritatingly soft at the core. Elza caught herself and opened her mouth as if to protest, but no sound escaped. She shook her head at her reflection again. Her skin was sallow and her temples, gray. Her eyes looked sunken in. Her breasts sagged like plastic shopping bags. She tried to force a smile. She pulled her hair back and stuck out her chin. She remembered the younger woman she had been. She thought to herself, I know I am in there. Somewhere. I know I am still here!
Elza resolved to coax that hopeful, younger person back into her life. She swept her dark hair onto the crown of her head and hid the graying temples. She took time with her makeup, and when she was done, she really did appear younger, or at least more confident. She looked in the mirror again and forcibly smiled at herself. The distress was still on her mind, but absolutely nothing in her countenance showed it. It was only an ambiguous feeling of dissatisfaction after all.
She decided that a great part of her distress in life came from the fact that so much of it was second rate. Never mind that customers loved her restaurant. Never mind that when they came they usually sought her out as well, to compliment her—especially the men. A potential romance with these men was not a danger. Quite simply, what Elza found dissatisfying was the quality of men who called on her. She was weary of them. She was weary of the lisping Professor of Humanities and his inthethant requeths for Hollandaithe thauthe. Weary of the Postal Inspector, who smiled at her gamely whenever he sloped into the restaurant. Weary, most of all, of the Motorcycle Officer, who never removed his helmet, who sweated profusely at the armpits, and who always placed his sidearm on the table facing toward the other diners, as though he were the protagonist of some forgotten World War Two film. And imagine, these were the men worth mentioning! She was equally weary of the rest of them. She wished for a different set of men to want to speak with her. Sophisticated men. Powerful men.
But these second-rate men seemed tethered to her. She knew it was entirely her fault for having encouraged them
Empathy!
Let us examine here and now the quality of empathy specific to Elza . . .
It was pathological! This is how Elza ran her restaurant. She flooded her customers with aperitifs and sentiment. She buried them in mountains of thick sliced bread and enthusiasm. She was completely at the service of those who mattered. For at least ten years now. Always smiling. Always casting her eyes or fluttering her hands as if she were working a magic show. However, as is life’s way, there were hazards, and so the occupational hazard of second-rate men was hers.
Still, none of this was necessarily a problem. These were merely the circumstances of her daily life. But today she had awoken with a sense of loss, a fear of her future. A sense that her life had been spent and every second-rate thing she had grabbed hold of thus far would be the end of her tale and the best she could do.
Now, later in the morning, she stood beside her young man—her sous-chef, her employee—in her restaurant’s freezer, counting and stocking produce. She wore a tailored pantsuit, a silk blouse with a plunging neckline, a pendant of Venetian glass, and perfect makeup. She had tried to trick herself into feeling better, by looking better. The Sous-Chef said only, “Why are you so dressed up for inventory?”
She tried to turn away from the young man lest he witness her vulnerability. She felt slow and useless in the cold room. She miscounted the eggs in the palette in front of her and began again. What is the problem? She could not understand it.
She looked up at the Sous-Chef. She looked at the balanced angles of his face. She watched the muscled cords of his forearms as he lifted large cans onto the shelves above their heads. Her heart should have quickened at the sight of him, but it did not. She felt nothing. The Sous-Chef lowered his eyes and met her gaze. His pupils dilated. He smiled. She did not return it. He leaned in with parted lips.
“Not at work,” she snapped, and, turning away, she dropped an egg. The egg cracked open over the others and its yolk slipped. For a second, its yellow yolk kept its shape, but it just as quickly burst open and oozed into a slick mess. It was the third egg she had dropped. Frustrated, one hand fluttered into the air while the other pushed the palette of eggs away.
The young man laughed and grabbed her. He pulled her closer. With his other hand he deftly raised her chin up toward him. He was strong, she thought. Capable. The Sous-Chef kissed her mouth. He kissed her on the neck. It was pleasurable and she thought maybe she should put her arms around him, but she found she could not lift either of them and instead stood awkwardly in the cold room. Her hands remained by her side. Heavy. As though each one were holding a goose by the legs.
“Not at work!” she sighed, between his pecks.
“You’re angry with me for something,” he said. “I can tell. I can come by tonight, if you like.”
He released her face, but kept her body pressed against his own with one arm. He nuzzled and then murmured something in her ear. Even in the freezer, Elza felt her skin glowing. She felt warm. The sheer bulk of him beside her was like standing beside a furnace. She could not decide if any of this made her feel better or worse about herself. It certainly made her feel silly. He released her suddenly without warning. He finished stacking the cans and then left her in the freezer. As he walked past, he sought out her fingers with his own. He winked at her, and Elza shook her head back at him.
“What am I doing?” she whispered to herself when he left.
Weeks passed this way, but Elza managed to keep her growing discomfort from showing. Her growing depression, her despondency, whatever this was, was silent and invisible, as still as a fresh pot of water set to boil. But soon, she began to bubble. She began sleeping later, yet feeling simultaneously as though she had not slept at all. She began arriving at work later than usual. Nobody beyond the Sous-Chef—who often slept beside her—could tell. But even he did not think it serious.
“Of course you’re tired,” he said understandingly. “Who wouldn’t be?”
Elza wanted to scratch him when he said things like that. She didn’t want his understanding.
Elza wondered if she was the only person who ever felt this way. Surely, it must be the case, she thought. When she walked through the dining room on the way to the kitchen, or when she was called on, and she looked at her customers, she could not help but think that her customers were wholly unlike her. When she looked into their eyes straining to make some sort of connection, she was surprised by how blissful everybody looked.
The people who dined in her restaurant—Tulip, it was called—were satisfied . . . self-satisfied . . . very nearly smug in their satisfaction with life. They saw nothing second-rate about it. To a man, they were no less than fifteen kilograms overweight. To a woman, they were bedazzled and overdone. Fat, newly rich, and mindlessly happy, they were like escaped walruses and ostriches stomping along zoo grounds in top hats and scarves. Existential crisis did not exist in their lives. They ordered lamb; they devoured lamb. Then they licked their lips, picked their teeth, and ordered dessert. They smiled at one another and at their own reflections in the silver mirrors along the walls. They squeezed each other’s thighs under the tables. They nodded at one another and belched into their napkins or excused themselves to restrooms where their intestines churned without issue and expelled waste without strain, without sighs, without even a whistle of relief. They returned dreamily to their seats and began again. Like clockwork. As predictable as the Swiss. Life was simple. They needed nothing more than for Elza to smile and nod, encourage them and wind them up from time to time.
Of course, sometimes they had ideas for how she might improve things.
“You should take a table or two away. It would make the dining room less crowded,” said one.
“You should put up curtains so we don’t have to watch those Gypsies begging outside,” said the Professor of Humanities. “They’re always about, tapping on the glass, pulling at jackets. They’re a nuisance.”
“You should make your portions larger.”
“You should make your portions smaller.”
“I only have your interests at heart!” They all exclaimed this.
Elza opened her eyes wide in response. She thanked them. The corners of her mouth pulled her lips apart in a smile. She grinned for them, two rows of teeth wide. Then she jutted her chin out, pulling the skin underneath taut. She agreed with her customers, no matter what silliness they muttered, and those customers returned her smile. They left large tips for the waitstaff. They returned again and again, for years now. They kept her in business.
Elza had noticed early on, ten years ago, that once released from the clutches of socialism, the masses instantly began twirling like dervishes and shouting with pleasure or for attention, as if they were children let out to recess after years of mental cruelty at the hands of a bitter schoolmarm and her dilapidated classroom.
It was enough, then, for Elza to smile and look into her customers’ faces. It was enough for her to nod approvingly and feign interest. Offer a complementary drink or two. Why, with the promise of a full belly and some smiling encouragement Elza realized they could be induced to jump off cliffs en masse! Yes, yes, we’re so very clever. Let’s pat ourselves on the back and jump, shall we?
Elza chuckled. She chuckled at the fact that she could see it so clearly, that she could read her customers so thoroughly, and yet, she never tried to take advantage of them, only sell them Chicken Paprika and Shepherd’s Goulash. How lucky for them, she thought. Lucky, that she was world-weary and only going through the motions.
