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From Romania to France via America Novels La Traversee du Styx (Crossing the Styx) |
From Death Row With
Love:
First chapter What divine justice have I disobeyed? Sophocles: Antigone CONTENTS Letter from the Underworld Dj Vu A Sighting of Consequence The Alien Connection The Job Interview Close Encounter of No Kind A Close Shave The First Day of School Dinner with an Unexpected Denouement Blue Flower A Birthday Gift Like No Other Paris: the City of Fallen Angels Living with Strangers At the Brink of the Abyss Tears to Heaven A Mystical Resolution A Special Encounter Hell Breaks Loose Hell Gets Worse Dead Woman Walking First Phone Call Doru's Account in San Diego Back in the Snowland Mother and Son So Many Years Tragedy with a Happy End Letter from the Underworld The terrorist age was in full
swing. Afghanistan was being sanitized and Iraq was making the headlines. A
larger United Europe was a step closer to its superpower dream, and France
was still on America's shit list. Moi—an
expat in Paris—was under the spell of a capricious and delicious
marquise. Light of my art, trickster of my heart But that's a different
novel. One June morning, as I was
stretching my sleepy limbs for a jog in Jardin des Plantes, the Polynesian
concierge shoved a letter under my door. It was neither the electric bill nor
the statement from the rental agency, which, along with an occasional card from
an extinguished flame and an illegible letter from my evangelical father, was
my monthly intercourse with the postal service in the Internet age. The addressee's name: a certain
Ana Amarovich followed by a multitude of letters and numbers. The name was
vaguely familiar. I scrolled my memory with no results. My morning exercise
yielded to curiosity. "Dear Doru," began the
letter in a neat calligraphic handwriting. "We met last year at a soire
given by an American expat in Paris Now I am a convicted cold-blooded killer
on California's death row." A chill ran down my spine. I
instantly thanked my lucky star for choosing someone else for the deadly
honor of sending her to the antechamber of institutionalized demise. In our
turbulent domestic times, one never knows what a kitchen knife, an ice pick,
or a frozen turkey can do. It all came back to me in a
flash. It was at J.H., the colorful American whose legendary Sunday dinners
attract Anglophones from around the world. The moment I walked thorough the door
of his atelier, the King of Expats announced from his royal stool that I
wasn't the only "vampire" on the premise. And before I had the
chance to fake some interest, he introduced me to Ana, a Romanian-born
English teacher from Seattle—medium height, collarbone-length brown
hair curled inwardly, dark eyes—and Nathan, her teenage lanky son with
an androgynous sweet face and a becoming scar on his cheek. J.H., the eternal womanizer,
couldn't help commenting that if he had a mom like her when he was a teenager,
he would have contemplated incest. A sudden blush revealed the most striking
poignancy I've ever caught on a woman's face, as if all the unhappy mothers
in the world had contributed to its making. The expression only lasted for an
instant, her forced laughter chasing it away. "He's the love child of my
sweet sixteen," she said with a motherly kiss on Adonis' cheek. Nathan,
flushing scarlet, looked away embarrassed. He would have given anything to be
somewhere else. I needed a drink, so I excused
myself to fetch one. On my way to the booze stand I was detained by a French
dame and a bulky American businessman feeling lonely in their chateau. By the
time I freed myself from their verbal dungeons, the cook was dishing out the
main course: baked chicken aux herbes de Provence. I grabbed a plate and went outside in the garden,
bursting with vegetation and guests. Trees were in bloom and their pollen
stirred by the gentle breeze triggered allergic sneezes. It was a balmy
spring evening, ideal for new amorous blunders. Next to a rose bush I spotted
the sexy mama and her son. Her tight burgundy jeans and fluffy pullover gave
my thirty-something compatriot a girlish appearance. She had succeeded in
minimizing the age gap between her and the faun next to her. Unlike teenagers
of his generation, Nathan didn't fall for baggy pants, extra-large tee-shirt
and baseball cap worn backwards. An elegant beige jacket sans tie and
matching trousers gave him the air of a promising dandy. They were quietly
sampling the food on their plates without much appetite. Now and then the
mother raised her eyes to her love child with the tenderness of a lioness
ready to maul anybody intending to harm her cub. Something made me think that
such extraordinary maternal devotion was the result of a traumatic past. I joined them, hoping for a
novelistic treat that spanned from Romanian childhood to American adulthood
with special emphasis on "sweet sixteen." The fact that I was
Romanian-born gave me an undeniable edge over the other guests. My intrusion
was expected and even encouraged with a long look in my direction. Not even five minutes into the
conversation, Nathan wandered off. He was uncomfortable in the presence of
grownups entertaining his mama. But our tte--tte didn't bear the plump
juicy mango I hoped for. Her verbiage didn't ricochet like stray shrapnel,
dwelling luxuriantly on casualties. As I was to find out from her journal,
Ana left out the part which would have made my jaw drop into my lap. She was the daughter of an aeronautic
engineer who forgot to return to
Romania after participating in a US conference. Two years later the
eight-year-old Ana and her mother joined him. By then her father was working
for Boeing. At sixteen Ana fell for a seventeen-year old schoolmate, and
that's when all her troubles began. Now the English teacher and her son were
spending spring break gorging on the sights of Paris. While loitering on the
Pont des Arts at sunset, they had stumbled upon J.H. "et me
voil avec ma solitude et ma mauvaise humeur." Her French
put mine to shame. Little by little our
conversation became more animated. But for some mysterious reason she wasn't
entirely at ease. Something worried her and I took a guess. "Maybe junior has succumbed
to some little French girl's charms. Falling in love at a tender age seems to
run in the family." Ana chuckled, assuring me that I
was on a wild goose chase. My compatriot preferred to eat
dessert in the living room, where she could keep an eye on her son's debut
into cosmopolitan society. The kid didn't appear to have a dull time. A
Russian doll, one of those creatures who know exactly what they want from
life, was entertaining him. Their languorous glances hadn't spared me either.
But that's a different novel... Soon enough we ended up in front
of J.H.'s mini library. My "Romanian novel," which dealt with the
delicious sins of my youth clashing with the sinister sins of communism, was
among them. She browsed through it, making me devilishly restless, as if she
were about to criticize my style. She must have stumbled upon a corny
passage, for she giggled, then, as she jumped several chapters ahead, her
good disposition vanished with a sigh. "You can take this author
to bed, I said, making her laugh. And if you want to chew out my literary
ass, here's my card. She confined the book to her
bag. "What is your narrator up to now?" "A dangerous liaison with a
Russian femme fatale married to a French aristocrat. What about dinner
tomorrow night? I'll give you an earful about it." "I'm leaving
tomorrow." "Just my luck!" The Russian
"distraction" kept monopolizing my thoughts, and little by little
Ana was shelved in some cobwebbed corner of my memory. Dear Doru, We met last year at a soire
given by an American expat in Paris. I was the intriguing mama you wanted to
invite to dinner. Now I am a convicted cold-blooded killer on California's
death row. Losing family members and
friends to illness or old age are the hard facts of life. We weep our tears,
mumble ashes to ashes, and life goes on. But when dear ones vanish into the
night before their time, our tears never dry. Im not a murderer, but I've
lived through an unprecedented nightmare from which only the sweet sleep of
death can liberate me If you can still be reached
at this address, I would like to send you my journal for safekeeping. After
Im gone, please give it to my son. Your "deadly"
friend, Ana Amarovich P.S. After reading your novel, there is no
doubt in my mind that youd relate better than anybody I know to what I went
through. You understand a womans heart, a parents despair for a lost
child... P.P.S. If you don't want to
spoil a mystery, don't search the Internet for info about my case. Her letter ruined my entire day.
My mandatory jog in the Jardin des Plantes became a race down to the Seine
and back. I almost knocked down a senior citizen feeding sparrows in one hand
while shooing away the pigeons with the other. Dear Ana, I was beside myself reading
your letter. How the devil did you manage to fool the American justice
system? I guess it's much easier to prove one's guilt than one's innocence. By all means, send your
diary. Rest assured, I won't spoil your mystery. But la noblesse oblige.
PLEASE don't do anything foolish. What's the rush? Don't underestimate the resilience
of the human ghost. Your "pro-life"
friend, Doru Moraru On my way back from the post
office I couldn't resist the temptation to enter a cybercaf and do some
research about capital punishment. My knowledge on the subject was scanty.
Like the average Joe, I'd heard about serial killers such as Ted Bundy and
Jeffrey Dahmer, but I was blissfully ignorant about women on death row. To my surprise there were
hundreds of sites on the subject, which made me feel like a starving man in
an all-you-can-eat mega-buffet. It turned out that there were nearly 3000 men
and 50 women on death row. Among the 50, many were mothers who had killed
their children. The average wait for the executioner's song was 11 years.
Unlike the existential prisoners from Beckett's play, some inmates either
killed themselves or volunteered to be put to death. As I was clicking here and there
(Texas had electrocuted a man named George Washington), the probable
happened. I came across her name on an official list posted by the Department
of Correction of the State of California. I closed the site and left. I just
couldn't break my promise. While replaying my encounter
with the "cold-blooded killer," a forgotten incident resurfaced. As
I ventured further in J.H.s blossomy garden, I spotted Adonis and his pretty
mama in a questionable filial embrace. She had her arms around his shoulders,
and their faces seemed to converge. I couldn't see clearly because the trees
blocked the light coming from the building. Was the embrace innocent, due to
motherly exaltation? On the other hand, I couldn't stop wondering whether
Nathan was indeed her lovechild. Was the mother-son scenario just an alibi
for another teacher having an affair with a student? The publicized case from
Washington State came to mind. Two weeks later, as I was
returning from my morning jog, I discovered a bulky envelope under my
doormat. Doru Moraru, Paris |