06/17/2008
Heavy Nightmare
Tuesday, June 17, 2008: I will leave on the 20th, but I don't know how. That part totally escapes me. All I know is that I must leave. I have to take my little cat, my belongings and take off. Scary. I can't wait for it to happen.
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06/10/2008
Nadia Remembered
Tuesday, June 10, 2008: It was a Thursday. Very early in the morning. You tried everything to survive, just like had done it your entire life, but the fire was too great. You thought of everything to draw attention to yourself and your dogs. I know they barked for help, and I know you must have yelled.
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06/09/2008
9 Years
Monday, June 9, 2008: Tomorrow it will be 9 years. Nadia died 9 years ago in that horrible fire. It was a Thursday morning and she did everything she could to ask for help. No one came until it was too late. She died of asphixiation, with two of her dogs, Otranto and Niebla. The firemen found her next to the front door. She had been clutching the house keys.
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03/30/2008
Remembering Nadia
March 30, 2008: Today would have been Nadia’s 84th birthday. I only knew her for four months and a week, but I have never forgotten her. Nadia had something that tugged at my heartstrings. I loved her very much. She had been a self-made woman who suddenly lost it and ended up living in a large and filthy apt. With her 3 dogs. No one was taking care of her when I met her on February 3, 1999.
I had seen her around the neighborhood walking her black dog Otranto, but we didn’t talk until that Wednesday afternoon. I was on my way to the movies to see the modern version of the Cinderella tale, starring Drew Barrymore and Anjelica Huston. I had noticed her dark brown eyes and the dark circles under them and her long black and white hair. She was dressed shabbily—baggy trousers, dirty tennis shoes and a long sleeved top. I didn’t want to be late for the movie, which was all the way in the Palermo neighborhood, almost an hour away from Vicente Lopez. But I wanted to talk to her. After that, we ran into each other until she invited me up to her apt. on the 1700 block of Avenida Maipu. It was something out of the Miss Havisham character in Dickens’ novel Great Expectations.
That March 30, 1999 Nadia had a better birthday. I went to Depto. 10 F, knocked on her door. Her dogs were behind her when she opened. I will never forget her face, or the way Otranto, Niebla and Rubio were protecting her. You were the only one who remembered, she told me. That evening we had a little party in my apt. There was a cake, sandwiches, tea and coffee. Even her adopted son showed up. Nadia was happy.
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03/10/2008
Our Side of Beccar
Monday,March 10, 2008: Beccar is now to be found on most Internet search engines. It is true--parts of Beccar have huge Swiss-style chalets with swimming pools and large gardens. Those chalets are for the most part behind Beccar's train station. When I lived there with my Tia, our block was on the lower middle class side. Our door was painted white and we had to walk up at least 20 steps to get to the living room area. I remember that it was a nice, bright house-style apt. The two bedrooms were large, the kitchen was cozy, with a door opening onto the patio. We had a lot of good talks in the kitchen.The patio was our second favorite place, especially in the late spring and summer months. It was covered with a large green and white awning.There was a round table and 4 chairs with cushions. And my aunt's pots and plants. All her geraniums, begonias and roses kept us company as we talked and/or drank mate in the afternoon.
Now our side of Beccar has several remodeled homes, chalets and other houses have been given a new roof, new garden, more modern looks. It's great to walk by them and admire how they've changed.
Our small place is almost the way it was before. Even the large tree outside our living room window is still as bushy as ever.
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12/08/2007
Doggie Klutz
December 7, 2007: He stuck his tongue out and kissed me all over. It was all wet and he kept on kissing me. Then he came to sit by me. He got up to put his front paws on my lap. I want attention, he seemed to say. I want your attention! Just like I had it when we lived together.I looked at him several times. Giving him up was a mistake.
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11/26/2007
Ultimo Ejercicio de Literatura
Ejercicio de Literatura
Por Eugenia Renskoff
26 de Noviembre 2007
La Vieja
--¿Y cuando la internaron en un manicomio?
--No sé exactamente. Dicen que la semana pasada, o hace 10 días, contesto Mariela.
Tiene familia? 2 semanas atrás la vi con 2 perritos. Los llevaba en un carrito y pedía limosna a los que pasaban por la calle.
--Créeme que lo siento mucho. Dicen que la gente que entra a uno de esos lugares no sale más.
--Así es. Pero vos sabes como son las cosas. Esa mujer era un problema. Se la querían sacar de encima.
--¿Dónde estaba viviendo?
--En una casa. Vivía sola con esos perros que vos viste y 8 más.
--Me parece que es un caso parecido al de mi amiga. Nadia llego a sentirse tan mal que un día algo en ella dijo basta. Empezó a descuidarse, a deprimirse. Me daba pena porque había sido una mujer tan brillante, una luchadora como pocas. Nadia en su época fue lo que las jóvenes quieren ser ahora—toda una triunfadora.
--Si, es algo así. Ahora los perros no tienen hogar. Los vecinos les dan de comer, pero necesitan tener un dueño.
--Un problema de nunca acabar, no, Mariela?
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10/22/2007
New Novel in Spanish
Nueva Novela: La Vecina
Por Eugenia Renskoff
-¡No! Discúlpeme, Elena, pero no lo voy a hacer. No quiero ir hasta allá. Imposible.
Elena la miro extrañada. Esta era una Teresa que desconocía por completo. La mansa y dulce mujer que conocía desde hace años definitivamente había desaparecido.
-Pero, Tere, tenes que pensarlo bien. Se va a poner muy contento al verte.
-No, por favor, no insista más.
Elena intento tocarle las manos. Abruptamente, Teresa se levanto de su silla y se fue al otro lado del living.
Había experimentado tanto sufrimiento por ese ser viviente que estaba tan lejos, y ahora Teresa parecía desinteresada. De repente estaba muy fría.
-¿Le sorprende mi cambio, no? Es que estoy muy cansada. Siempre hice lo que querían los demás. Ahora quiero cambiar y hacer lo que yo quiero.
-¿Entonces que va a ser de el? Lo vas a abandonar?
-No, ya le dije que no. Le voy a seguir mandando plata a la gente que lo cuida. Los euros siempre son bienvenidos en todo el mundo, especialmente allá.
--Te hago un café, ¿que te parece?
Teresa se encogió de hombros.
--Si, esta bien. En la cocina hay café molido y en bolsitas.
Al rato Elena volvió con 2 tazas grandes de café con leche.
--Te lo hice porque se lo mucho que te gusta. No es cuestión de seguir con lo mismo, pero el ya es grande, y necesita de vos. Otra persona no lo va a cuidar tan bien.
Teresa cerró los ojos. Le contesto a su vecina sin abrirlos.
--Si, Elena, de acuerdo, me necesita. Nadie lo conoce como yo. Cambiemos de tema, ¿quiere?
Cuando Elena se fue para su casa, Teresa se quedo en la silla pensando.
Seria tan lindo si todo esto pudiera desaparecer como por arte de magia, si se pudiera volver atrás, antes de que todo esto apareciera en mi vida, en nuestras vidas. Ahora la angustia es demasiado grande y no se que hacer. Elena tiene buenas intenciones, pero eso no va a ayudarme a resolver el problema.
Busco un número de teléfono en su agenda y lo marco.
--Hola, ¿Marcos? Si, soy Tere. ¿Como estas? Regular, no tan bien como quisiera. Te llamo para consultarte. Si, es acerca de ese problema, el que vos sabes. No, parece de nunca acabar. Si, lo extraño pero no soy la misma. Y sentiría tanta culpa si le llegara a pasar algo. Parece ser mas bebe que un bebe de verdad. .
--No. No vale la pena, ya se. Pero vos ya me conoces. Soy muy sentimental. Esa es mi mayor desgracia. Si, vos siempre me lo decías, ¿te acordas? No puedo pensar y tener la sangre fría, por lo menos una vez en mi vida. ¿Tranquilizarme? Mira, lo he intentado todo—leer, caminar por un lugar lindo y con mucho ruido, trabajar hasta tarde, cansarme hasta que se me cierran los ojos, pero nada funciona. Si, pero es un viaje que no quiero hacer. Vos me entenderás. Estoy como si acá estuviera fuera de todo eso, en otro planeta. Esta bien. No, después espero a que me llames. Gracias. Chau.
¿Ahora que? No puedo dejar que esto me coma, me esta amargando la vida. Ya no puedo dormir. Cuando lo veía todos los días, lo mimaba, le daba de todo. Ahora también, aunque desde muy lejos. Pero no le tengo confianza a esa gente. Si voy, no va a ser por unos días y nada más. Y entonces ¿Qué hago? Lo último que me puedo dar el lujo de hacer es cometer otro error. Ya han sido demasiados en poco tiempo. Es eso lo que me deprime. No solamente el, sino tantos errores juntos. ¡Que carga resulto ser todo esto!
Intento irse a dormir, pero no pudo. Tomar pastillas para descansar un poco no le gustaba, esa idea nunca había sido una de sus favoritas, pero lo prefería a mirar el techo toda la noche.
¿Que estará haciendo? ¿Lo estarían tratando bien? ¿Por lo menos una persona en esa casa seria bondadosa con el?
Sabía que las respuestas a estas preguntas tal vez nunca le llegarían.
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Forbidden Love in Argentina
Forbidden Love in Argentina: My Story
By Eugenia Maria Renskoff
I was living in San Francisco when the phone call from Western Union changed my life. Your Uncle Juan has died, the voice said. Uncle Juan in Argentina? But he was always so full of life, so dynamic, a man always ready to help his neighbors, help anybody who needed it. Ihard to believe he was gone.
I called my aunt and after talking with her for a few minutes, I decided I had to drop everything and go down there. My life was in need of a change and I was eager to help my favorite (and only) aunt.
When I arrived in Buenos Aires, I knew I was right to have made the trip. My aunt had changed from a robust, happy-looking woman into someone who was haggard and very thin.
Padre Luis had been a good friend to my uncle before and especially, during his illness. My aunt said she wanted me to meet him, so she took me to the local church where he was the parish priest. He was around 27, only two years older than me, with dark brown eyes, fair skin and and an outgoing personality. For me, it was love at first sight. When I saw him, I felt something that I had never felt in my life. I seemed to recognize him from another life, I had net him before, long ago.
Taking care of my aunt kept me busy for a few days at the same time that it gave me time to start denying that I felt what I knew I was feeling.
But it was no use. Try as I might I always ended up thinking about Padre Luis. One day I went to the church and signed up to be a volunteer for Caritas (Catholic Charities). I thought that if I saw him often, my feelings would go away. I would get rid of them once and for all.
Padre Luis was loved by everyone. They called him Luis or Luisin.I couldn’t. I started to hate the word Padre, but I used it as often as I could, for the most part to keep him and my own feelings, at a distance. Once he asked me why I didn’t dispense with formalities, but I just played dumb and said that in the United States people never called their parish priests by their first names. Give me time, I asked him, lying.
He tried to engage me in conversation several times, asking me questions about my life in California, what I had studied in college, but my answers were brief and to the point. When he spoke to me, I never dared look him in the eye. Whatever I was afraid of; it was something that I didn’t want to deal with
Being near Luis was very enjoyable, like going to a great big party, were we were the most important guests. I looked forward to my Caritas duties more and more. My aunt even joked about the possibility of my becoming a nun, and I laughed with her. Except for my father, our entire family was Catholic, but we hardly ever went to church. Now helping people (even if there wasn’t much I could actually do) became really important to me. I was happy and I never wanted that happiness to end. I didn’t care if we were almost never alone, or if his small office was so crowded that it reminded me of a busy train station, like Grand Central in New York.
Time went by and my aunt’s landlady asked her to move out. The news came as a shock because my aunt and uncle had lived there for over 16 years and had never missed a payment. We felt comfortable in the house and in the neighborhood, but there was nothing we could do except look for another place.
My aunt began to suspect the truth about my feelings and suggested I go back to the United States. I refused. There was no way I could leave her. Her situation was a hard one and my uncle’s family could not be counted on to do anything for her. I could not leave him, either, even if he wasn’t actually mine.
One time, just before Christmas, my aunt and I were invited to a gathering. The small parish house where Luis and the other priest lived was packed. My aunt was talking with a neighbor when Luis walked by me. I blushed and looked the other way. He was holding his young niece by the hand. Why priests can’t be married, I thought. Why not give them the chance to be husbands and parents, just like rabbis or Protestant ministers? What great big harm would that do the Church?
It was a Saturday afternoon. My mother was saying that my father was very ill. It had happened with no warning. He was very weak, not himself anymore. I had to go back to California to see him, probably for the last time.
Before taking the plane back, I went to see Padre Luis. I felt that if I did not say I loved him I would explode. My secret could no longer be just mine alone. Besides, he had a right to know. I didn’t expect him to tell me he loved me, too, but I was young and in love. I couldn’t help it. I wished for that to actually happen. Maybe I also wished that he would go to the United States with me.
It was Sunday after the 12 noon Mass. I was very scared when I opened the door of his office. Now or never—it had to be done before I lost my nerve. Every one had already left. I swallowed hard, and looking him in the eye, I told him about my feelings.
When I got back to San Francisco, I discovered that my father had terminal cancer. I spent as much time as I could with him. I felt guilty about having been away all those months in Argentina. A few times I wanted to tell him about Luis, but I didn’t dare. Not that my father would have been shocked, or have said something like How dare you! But I just didn’t want to tell him anything as serious as that in his condition.
A month or two later, I wrote a letter to Luis. When I told him I loved him, he hadn’t said anything and that had made me feel confused and angry, like he didn’t care, like he heard declarations of love every day of his life. Even if he didn’t love me back, why not say something? Anything would have been better than silence. Silence was cold and gray. I needed him to speak to me, to tell me thanks, but no thanks, if that was what he had to do.
My father died. About a week after the burial, I called my aunt. She still knew nothing about my father’s death. I could not tell her over the phone. The awful moment she and I had dreaded had finally come: Her landlady was suing her for eviction. I had to return to Argentina and see if there was anything I could do to help her. The thought of seeing Luis again did not seem to worry me. My mind tried very hard not to think about it. I hoped to feel nothing when, and if, we ran into each other again. I would probably not see him anyway. He had not even bothered to answer my letter.
My aunt asked me to go with her to see Luis. There was a lawyer he knew who could help at the trial. She was young, but very good with tough cases.
When he attempted to shake hands with me, I almost hid mine behind my back. But my aunt was there watching me closely, so I pretended that it didn’t bother me at all. I managed to give him the tips of my fingers—the best I could do. Touching him even slightly made my body tremble all over. It was like an electric current going through me. I hid my feelings by looking at the floor while he and my aunt talked.
When I was able to, I asked him about the letter. Why hadn’t he answered it? It wasn’t a long letter. I hadn’t written and sent it just because I had nothing better to do with my time. My aunt started to say that that was no way to talk to a priest, but Luis interrupted her and told me he had received the letter and would answer it in person.
After my aunt lost the lawsuit, our search for another house became more desperate. We only had three more months in the house, and then what? Where would we go? Where would she go? A nursing home was out of the question.
To take a break from our problems, my aunt suggested that I go visit one of our old neighbors. She would be fine, she assured me smiling, and all she needed was a little rest.
I came back to the house. I called to her, but she didn’t answer. She was dead in the bedroom. Later the doctor said she had simply fallen sleep. My world was over, my friend was gone. My Aunt had been more than a relative, more than my mother’s only sister. She and her neighborhood had become a very special place to me, and now I had lost them both.
A neighbor invited me to go stay with her and her family and I accepted. I needed time to think, to see what I would do with myself from now on. I had to know where I belonged and why. The only place that offered me any real comfort was the parish church. The Virgen Maria had been my Special Friend. I had gotten used to talking to Her as if to a woman my own age. The church was empty. I was sitting on a pew one afternoon when Luis came up to me.
I did not want to speak with him, but he insisted I go with him to his office. He seemed nervous and a little shy, quite unlike himself.
Now I can answer your letter, he told me. At first I didn´t want to read it, but I got curious. Temptation got the better of me, he added laughing.
I told him I was glad I’d sent it. I had no regrets, none at all. I would do it again, if I had to do it over again.
He told me he loved me. I didn’t believe him. I didn’t dare believe him—it was like a dream come true and so far, in my life, none of my dreams ever had come true. Luis looked at me, took off his priestly collar and kissed me not gently and not hard. That white collar had been the second thing I had grown to hate because it separated him from me. It had been a barrier, a stain that could not be washed off, not even with the best laundry detergent.
What if he went back to the Church after a while? What if he regretted not being a priest anymore? His favorite uncle had been a priest, and one day, without any warning, he had left everything to get married. There had been a scandal and that had shaken Luis badly. His uncle had been a man that he had looked up to, someone he had respected. These thoughts ran through my mind and Luis, watching me closely, seemed to guess every single one of them. He was reading me like a book. No, that wouldn’t happen, he told me, because he was sure of his feelings. He would miss being a priest at first, but he loved me.
But I was afraid. What of, I wasn’t sure—maybe afraid of all I had just thought, afraid of loving him too much. Suddenly I started to cry. I shook my head violently. Luis started to come near me, but I pushed him away with my hands. No, it wouldn’t work out.
I looked at him one last time and said goodbye. Without bothering to close the office door behind me, I ran all the way to my neighbor´s.
I did not want to tell her what had happened, so when she asked me what was wrong, I simply said I had decided to go back to California. I knew that if I told her she wouldn’t have been surprised or said anything to make me feel guilty for loving a priest, but it was best not to confide in her. I told her that my aunt’s death had made up my mind for me: nothing in Argentina would ever be the same for me without her. I would be leaving for California as soon as I sold her belongings.
Two weeks later I packed my bags and went to the airport. I never saw him again.
I loved this man more than I have ever loved anyone. Through him I learned what love, passion and emotional involvement with another human being meant. I discovered that I was a sensual, caring and vibrant woman. I grew up as a person because I loved him.
If I have one regret its having sacrificed myself and my love for something I didn’t really believe in. I was baptized in the Catholic faith, but I had stopped going to Mass after my arrival in the United States at the age of 10. Now, looking back, I think that rejecting Luis was a silly, immature thing to do. Even if it had only lasted one or two years, it would have been worth it. Real love doesn’t happen very often and this was as real as it gets.
There were other men after Luis, men I could have married, but he left a mark on my life that no one else did. I did not fall in love again after him. I wanted to because I would have wanted a husband and children, but if I had married any of my suitors, it would have been a marriage of convenience on my part.
I wrote a novel called Different Flags based on my love and am currently finishing a screenplay version of the book in both English and Spanish.
To me, loving Luis was worth it. I had nights when I couldn’t sleep, nights and days of great guilt, but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and pacing the living room of my aunt’s house. When I went back to bed, I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat and I lost weight.
I would try to stay away, not go to church for days at a time, but I always came back. Luis was like a magnet. I felt like a fool, not because I had fallen in love with a priest, but because I couldn’t tell anybody. I pretended I had a boyfriend back in California and that I missed him. The feeling of secrecy, of wondering what would happen if his parishioners found out, was very hard to deal with. But it—my love—was stronger. I had never expected to fall in love with anybody during my trip to Argentina. Denying it took a lot of energy, energy that maybe I could have put to use elsewhere. Self denial, however, was worse. It complicated things even more.
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Ejercicio de Literatura
Nadie
Por Eugenia Maria Renskoff
18 de Octubre 2007
El hombre entro a la cocina sin que nadie se diera cuenta. En el living comedor estaba una mujer hablando con una amiga.
--Es algo que todavía no logro entender. No se como pudo haberme pasado a mi. —decía la mujer.
--Perdóname que te lo diga, pero vos no tenes coronita. Lo que te paso a vos, le pasa a mucha gente.
La mujer miro a su amiga, y se encogió de hombros.
--Puede que no tenga corona, pero igual esto es increíble. Hasta vos te darás cuenta de lo que ahora significa para mí.
De repente, el hombre camino hasta el comedor.
--Adriana, recién vengo del abogado. No se como decírtelo.
La mujer se enderezo en su silla.
--Rápido seria mejor. Lo prefiero así.
El hombre respiro profundo y la miro a los ojos.
--Es muy difícil. Si esta persona realmente ha intentado hacerte algún daño, como lo pensas probar?
--No se.
--Adriana, hay cosas que no me estas diciendo, cosas que no me queres decir.
--No es necesario que lo sepas todo.
El hombre fue hasta la ventana del living y se quedo largo rato mirando a la gente que pasaba. No entendía como se había comprometido a buscar algo que pudiera salvar a esta mujer de la ruina. Adriana ya no era una mujer hermosa, pero algo en ella le despertaba cierta compasión. Se imaginaba en su lugar.
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10/12/2007
Nadia
· “To Find That Dead Woman”, a Novel
The Story of A Healthy Life Gone Wrong
Notes For The New Novel
Chapter One
Let me tell you a story, a story of many hats. Let me tell you about the designer hats I wore back in the Buenos Aires of the 40s and 50s. I can still remember that a Frenchwoman made them especially for me, and that she put each of them in a special box for me to take them home in. And that I bought more hats from Saks Fifth Avenue and Gimbels every time I traveled to New York. Those hats! I had so many of them! They made my young and pretty face stand out even more. They made me feel important even when I did not wear them with my classic business suits. And I stood straight and tall. I knew that some people called me arrogant; they even said I was distant and hard-to-know. Oh, yes, to them I was the arrogant one, the one who gave them orders. But what did they know? They could not see who I was. They could not see the real Nora of the early years. They never found out that many years later Nora died in a horrible fire and could not be saved. ´No, she could not be saved.
Then who or what could have saved me? Who was Nora, and how did she get there? How did her life hit rock bottom? I don’t know the answer to that. I just don’t know.
Hats, as I said, were the hot things of my good years. They were the accessories to end all accessories. In my day, a well-dressed woman on her way to town would rather be caught dead than seen by her friends without a hat. Hats defined you. They allowed a woman to develop her own style, to play with fashion and at the same time break its rules. With the right hat, a woman could be the protagonist of her own life. There was nothing that I wanted more than to be the protagonist, to be important. I wanted to be seen, looked at and to never get lost in some crowd, like most of the women I knew. There were a lot of things I was determined to rise above, and many things I wanted to accomplish. I had to—I wanted--to get them done in as short a time as possible. I was impatient. I could not wait. I was young then and did not know any better. I would soon be learning, and I would learn fast.
Nothing bad would ever happen to me. I was sure and confident of that. Nothing terrible. Nothing sad could touch me again. I, Nora, would see to that.
I would live well, enjoying what I knew my mother had not been able to enjoy: My mother with her uneasy and suffered life; my mother who led a life full of self-sacrifice. It was not going to be like that for me. I would make sure that what had happened to her would not be happening to me.
I wanted glossy. And I wanted it brassy—I loved things that stood out in the crowd. I wanted glamour in my life, all the glamour and all the glitter I could find. And I did not want to wait for them. I wanted them before I was old and wrinkled, like the women I would see walking around my neighborhood, wearing nice things, but not having the asset of youth. Their wrinkled necks depressed me; real jewelry could never look good around their worn-out necks. Youth was the only asset worth having, and I had it.
Yes, I was a sharp dresser. I was quite a well turned-out woman. I was an example for other women to follow. And all the smart young women of my generation followed me and made me their role model. I was the only one they imitated and copied over and over again: Me, the little immigrant from Ukraine. Me, who arrived in Buenos Aires when I was six, without speaking one word of Spanish.
Were there three fresh red carnations on my grave this afternoon? Who put them there? Somebody must have remembered that I’ve been dead these past two years. How strange for that to happen, considering the fact that nobody came to my funeral. Yes, this is strange, but not as strange and ironic as a lifetime dedicated to wearing hats and to looking royal, majestic. I felt royal. I was quite the lady. I made my statements and I was the best. And everyone got my message so well that nobody ever guessed the poverty of my childhood. What came after all that success was gone? I don’t remember, but it wasn’t good. None of it was. And in my condition, so sick that I couldn’t even get up some mornings, I still had to take care of my dogs—all three of them and all three always hungry. They asked for my attention when I had no body to give me attention, when I didn’t want to give attention to myself. I didn’t care about me anymore. I only cared about who I had once been, so long ago in that other Buenos Aires. It was a gentler city then, still always hustling and bustling but nicer, kinder. I still had to make it on my own, but the climate wasn’t as demeaning as it is now in the late 90s. It would have been a lot harder for me now. As it is, I know that my life is over—practically over, except for my dogs. They interest me a little; they keep me alive, just barely alive. But not enough to have a tolerable life during my last years. I have a hard time remembering that now is not then, that before has been over for a long time or that my grand lady like past is no more. I keep thinking I’m still living then and not now. This can’t be now; it’s too horrible, too lonely to be real. But when I look at my dirty walls (I think they were white once upon a long time), I know this is reality, my reality, and I try to live with it. I wake up and see that ugliness and cringing is not enough. Not enough at all. I still see it and it’s still there—uglier than ever.
So here I am remembering old times, so much better times. I loved my café con leche in the cafeteria with all the gang, with all my co-workers gathered there at around 10 in the morning. We would drink our café con leche and media lunas, so buttery and crisp that they would melt in our mouths. But the camaderie was the best part, the part where I was part of something, where I felt important and protected at the same time. I was Señorita Nora then, I was useful and well liked by everyone. Señorita Nora. I enjoyed every minute of it. There were perks for me to enjoy everywhere. Now the only perks I get are my memories.
There’s nothing else and nobody to talk to. My eyes get sad when I think about this. Once so pretty! So bright and alive! Men used to say my eyes were my best feature. And for once they were right.
I really didn’t need men to keep me like other women I knew. I had my own money because I worked hard for it. Very, very hard, from the time I was 13-years-old, sticking labels on medicine bottles at the laboratory.
Nora with the expensive hats: What a beautiful sight I was! How they all looked at me!
Only me. I was always taking center stage then. I was always the best. I had to be the best. There was no other way. I had to be the only one. I had to be a winner.
That was how it was then, a long ago then. As for now, I don’t even want to know that now exists. It might as well not exist because it is so ugly!
What is even uglier is that no one comes to visit me. No one comes to my apt., and, unfortunately, I can’t talk to my dogs, and they can’t talk back to me. They just bark and ask me for food. What food? Where do I get it for them and for myself? Where do people like me go for what we need? Where do I find kindness now, when I need most? Where will I find peace? It’s nowhere, nowhere for me to see it. I can just see this ugliness and traces of my dogs’ urine on the walls. Oh, the urine. How can I escape it? It’s always there for me to see. And I have to see it, I can’t help but see it. Oh, God! It is such an ugly sight! It looks like a clumsy child’s drawing on my wall. And my dogs bear the brunt of what’s going on. That’s what I am so sad about. I’m sad for them, I’m even sadder for me. So sad because of what’s happened. If there was a way for me to stop it, why didn’t I know about it? Why wasn’t something done about me? Something anything? Why will I have to die like this, with no love, no kindness, no nothing?
The smell of my dogs’ urine keeps me up at night. They pee everywhere and anywhere and I’m too tired most of the time to clean up after them. They are my family, but can’t they learn to clean up after themselves? I wish they could. I wish they were able to go out and find or buy their own food too. I need someone to take care of me, and here I am, taking care of them. They are nice, I do love them, but that’s not all. I need things. I never get anything these days—from them or anybody. Maybe the God I once thought existed isn’t really up there anymore. Maybe he was always gone because he’s not there when I need him most. How can I believe in God when I feel so terrible, when my days are gone? How can I believe in anything? I can’t, not the way I feel each day when I wake up in the morning. Then I see the ugliness and I think about the past. Things are the way they are for me, and I hate them.
How do I handle my life? How do I handle my dogs when they get sick or when they need me all the time? Why is my life such hell and how did it get there? I remember days, months, years where I was happy. Why didn’t they continue, why didn’t they go on and on like a happy dinner party where everybody is having such a great time they don’t want to go home? I used to love going to those dinner parties so much! I was the life of the party then. I was the life of all the best parties. My name was Nora and everyone knew it. Who knows me now? Who wants to know me now? I don’t want to know the Nora I avoid looking at in the mirror. I don’t want to know her. She’s ugly. She’s old, so old.
Chapter Two
I missed my mother. I hadn’t seen her since she left me at the train station. I was going to leave her, but I didn’t know for how long. And she had told me I was going to go to a strange country, but I’d never heard of it. I didn’t know where Argentina was. Somewhere in a continent called South America, my mother said. But I was six-years-old, and I had no idea where that was, either. I knew I missed her. My cousin was nice, but she was no substitute for my mother. When I held on to my cousin’s hand, it didn’t feel like my mother’s hand. My mother’s hand felt warm; my cousin’s hand was almost the hand of a stranger. But we couldn’t stay in the old country. Things—life—were hard there for a single mother with a little girl. My mother had to send me away to Argentina; she said she would follow me in a few months. I almost didn’t want to go to Argentina with my young cousin, but I was a child and we were so poor in our country. And I had no father. If I ever met him, I don’t remember what he looked like. I never had anything from my father, except for his last name. I still needed him them, and my mother must have needed him even more. But he was gone. He had immigrated to America and I didn’t remember what he looked like. My mother wouldn’t keep any pictures of him—no reminders of that man are necessary, she would say. We didn’t need him now or ever. We were going to be independent women from now on. We didn’t need any man.
My first days in Buenos Aires: My first thought was: It’s big! It’s huge! People everywhere! The schoolroom where my mother left me had wooden desks for at least thirty children. I was scared to be there by myself. My white smock didn’t fit me, and my white socks dropped to my ankles. I didn’t want to be there at all. I wanted to be with my mother; I wanted her to hug me and protect me. But the school bell rang and I had to pay attention to the young schoolteacher. And I didn’t speak one word of Spanish. But I was in the middle of it and I had to learn.
So my mother left me in the new schoolroom, and for that one day I pretended I was deaf and mute. It was my protective shield against the pain I felt those first weeks in school. And those first weeks were hard. I couldn’t understand what was happening around me, what my teacher or classmates were saying. I was not like them, and they didn’t like me. I didn’t know why at first, but then I found out—they didn’t like me because I was an outsider, I came from another place. And it was a place nobody had ever heard of—Ukraine, near Russia. I had never heard of Buenos Aires or Argentina either, for that matter. If I was a foreigner to them, they were foreigners to me. And that was that.
There were about thirty of us in the classroom, and we got used to one another in that small classroom. It was 1930, the beginning of the Depression in Argentina. I had few clothes to wear under my white school uniform. There was nothing to change into or out of. I made up my mind then and there that this was not going to happen to me when I grew up. I would have all the clothes I wanted. I’d be well dressed, like a real lady. And I’d earn my money. I was going to be an independent woman like my mother. Like my mother who worked as housekeeper in some rich family’s house.
I knew I would have tea one day with important people, maybe even the most important and famous in Buenos Aires high society. I would be part of their inner circle. I would be one of them, and I’d earn that place by myself. All by myself with only my determination and perseverance for help. And I did it! I earned that place on my own. And I was the big boss of bosses—the one in charge of all the typists in my dept. I called the shots—always.
Yes, I called the shots—everywhere except in my personal life. There I had to look the other way and pretend the pain wasn’t there.
Si, Señorita. No señorita. Over and over again I’d hear these words. Power—that’s what it was: Power and feeling good about going to work every single day. That was because I was needed, because I was important. And I wanted to stay that way: important and unshakable. After all, I had become the queen of my workplace. I had gone from being a bottle sticker to their most valued employee. I was the one they—even my especially my boss—turned to in times of need and stress. Power! Once you taste it, you can’t have enough. I would stand in the middle of my boss’s office—me the immigrant from Ukraine dressed in my sharp black suit and say: Me? Yes, it’s me! I can rule him, I can rule this business when I want to.
Not bad at all. Not bad at all for the little bottle sticker from the Ukraine.
Yes, I like to reminisce at night so I won’t have to see the ugliness of my apt. I’m not dumb, I’m not stupid. People prefer to think I’ve lost my senses, but I haven’t. I know what I had then and what I have now. Back then I had everything and now I have nothing. I have nothing except knowing what once was.
I was Nora and I wanted everyone to know it. I wanted them all to applaud me. Me and only me.
Oh, the times I spent with the gang in the cafeteria for our midmorning snack. We would all drink café con leche and munch on crisp media lunas. But the food wasn’t important, the camaraderie we felt was. The time I spent there was precious to me. It was a great big family gathered around the table. It was like the family I never had as a child. I couldn’t have enough of it.
There was never enough of that feeling. Never enough of feeling I was in a family. My early life didn’t allow me any sentiments. It was just me and my mother working hard. The two of us were always together. We were inseparable—until she met that new man in her life. He came between us and ruined everything.
Too bad, because that was the end of the happy relationship between my mother and me. From then on, we had to hide our meetings. We would meet in secret, like clandestine lovers. We didn’t like it, but we made the best of our weekly cafes con leche. Yes, yes! It was hard for my mother and me. It was really hard to keep this new stage of our relationship hidden from my stepfather. But we did it. He was never sure when we would be meeting. I liked the idea of keeping him guessing, keeping him in suspense. He never knew what was going to happen next. And my own mother didn’t seem to mind. She played the game even better than I did myself. I know it hurt her to do it, but she did it. I was proud of her for that! I liked the fact that she actually did it!
She left me. She left me waiting at the train station and I was scared. I didn’t know the security guard, I didn’t know anybody. I had never seen them before.
Give my three dogs attention? I can barely give that to myself. But they’re innocent animals; they are not to blame for what’s happened to me. And I must make the effort to do what I can for them. I must do it even though I’m sick.
Nobody can take care of me. Nobody looking at the old woman I’ve become would want to. If I were the happy-go-lucky Nora, people would be lining up to do things for me. Then people would care. But the way I am now, nobody wants to mess with old age, with my old age.
Yes, I’m old, and therefore I’m no good anymore. Nobody needs me, no human being smiles at me. They never see me when I walk with my dogs. They see them, but I might as well be invisible. I’m just the arm that pulls the leash. I’m just not there.
Once I was Nadia, the lady with her elegant hats. Now I have bags under my eyes and I know nobody wants me.
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10/11/2007
Letter to the NY Times
Dear Editor, I am glad that something is finally being done to help homeowners facing foreclosure. Foreclosure is what happened to me back in GA in November 2005. I got involved against my will in mortgage fraud and predatory lending. I did not know what had happened to me until it was too late and had 2 mortgages with very high interest rates. The issue is not whether or not a person can afford to buy this or that a home. What really matters is that mortgage loan officers are tempted to take advantage of a borrower´s vulnerable situation because the loan officer has to earn his or her commission.
I have learned that these loan officers cannot always be trusted. The lesson was a very hard one. It has cost me my beautiful home, my family, my savings and the once almost perfect credit score I once had. Eugenia Renskoff Argentina
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09/30/2007
Different Flags
Important Moments in Different Flags, the Treatment
1. Ani, 26, receives a telegram from Argentina. Her Uncle Juan has died.
2. She decides to go against the wishes of her family. To pay for the ticket, she sells her jewelry.
3. Once she arrives there, the neighbors who pick her up at the airport tell her that her widowed aunt has been asked to vacate the house she and her husband have been renting for 16 years.
4. Ani, seeing her Tia again after almost three years, cannot help but notice that she has changed for the worse.
5. Ani is introduced by her Tia to Padre Luis, her young and good-looking parish priest of San Vicente
6. Ani and Tia go to San Tomas, a town near San Vicente, to seek legal advice. The lawyer offers them no hope.
7. Tia suggests to Ani that she go back to San Francisco. Things are going to be tougher from now on. Ani refuses, and convinces Tia to let her stay for at least three months.
8. On one of their walks around San Vicente Ani and Tia run into Padre Luis. Ani refuses to shake hands with him because her hand has warts.
9. A meeting with the landlady is unsuccessful. They will have to move out.
10. Ani decides to help her Tia find a new house. She likes San Vicente, but she is beginning to realize that her feelings for Luis are not a passing fancy.
11. With this in mind, Ani joins a church group. Maybe somebody will say something awful about Luis and that will stop her feelings. he search for the new house is far from over when Ani receives news that her father has cancer. She must go back to SF at the same time that she is torn over leaving her Tia—and Luis. Before her trip, she tells him that she loves him.
12. Soon after Ani returns to SF her father dies.
13. Ani goes back to Argentina to help Tia get ready for the eviction lawsuit.
14. Ani and Luis meet again. He has not answered the letter Ani wrote him from SF. He promises they will talk about it. He agrees to help Tia.
15. The landlady wins the lawsuit. Ani and Tia move away.
16. Tia dies. Luis offers Ani his condolences.
17. He tells her he loves her.
18. Ani rejects him
19. She goes back to California to a new and uncertain future.
Main Characters:
1. Ani, 26—a woman in transition
2. Tia, 68—a frail but gutsy widow
3. Padre Luis, 28—the neighborhood parish priest
Supporting Characters:
1. Olga—the next-door neighbor
2. Doña Teresa—another neighbor
3. Members of Ani´s family of origin
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Carol´s Story
Carol And Her Story: Carol Remembers Her Grand Past
Life From WW2 England to The Argentina of the 40s and 50s
Working Title: An Englishwoman in Buenos Aires
For Carol, life began in England around 1925.
Joyce (her real name) is on leave. She and another A.T.S. both go for a drink in a well-known bar on Regent Street. It is almost time to leave when Joyce stands under mistletoe and is kissed by a young captain by the name of Douglas Flanagan. It is friendship/love at first sight for both of them. Joyce and her captain spend the next 48 hours (of their leave) together –then both go back to their respective regiments. They write to each other for 5 months until Douglas asks her to marry him. Joyce accepts, gets permission from her commanding officer, and then travels to Scotland, where Douglas has been sent with his unit. Joyce and Douglas are married in Scotland, and they spend 2 wonderful weeks together until the order comes for his regiment to go to Liverpool. Liverpool is the port city where the allied troops are getting ready for the invasion of Europe, which is occupied by the enemy. Douglas leaves, and Joyce does not see him again for two years. In the meantime, Joyce, who was only 18, meets another army officer, an Argentine of Belgian ancestry who has enlisted as a volunteer. They have an affair and Joyce becomes pregnant. The war ends, and Douglas, her husband, who at first was listed as missing, comes back to the United Kingdom. In the meantime, the Belgian-Argentine officer leaves the about-to-give-birth Joyce temporarily. He promises to return for her and the baby.
Joyce is now alone in London—a bomb has killed her mother a few months earlier. Douglas, her husband, returns from the War and finds her quite pregnant by another man. He says he still loves her, but he will not accept the child. He suggests she give it up for adoption once it is born. She refuses, and they divorce. The Argentine/Belgian comes back when the baby girl is three-months-old. They stay in the United Kingdom for a year, then Joyce, her new husband and the baby travel to Argentina. By this time, Joyce is pregnant again.
Joyce finds life in Argentina very different from what it was in the UK: there is no such thing as food ration, since there is more than plenty to eat, and the women she runs into are beautifully dressed. Joyce is overwhelmed by the abundance of it all.
After a few years, Joyce comes to realize that her wealthy Argentine/Belgian husband is not exactly what she expected him to be. He had a very definite attraction as far as other women were concerned. This was extremely difficult for her to cope with. Without her knowledge, most of his extramarital affairs took place in her own home. One day she discovers him making love to the mistress of his own father in the bathroom.
Her life in Argentina is one of parties, trips and jewelry from Cartier Jewelers. But behind closed doors her husband soon turns out to be a jealous man. He slaps his wife in public on several occasions, yet his affairs with other women continue. She stays, yet she herself has an affair. But when her husband leaves her to get a divorce, she wishes they could all live under one roof, a happy, normal dysfunctional family going about their business.
The novel starts in 1942 and ends in 1961. It goes from the main character being a 17-year-old British army recruit in WW2 to Bs. As. in the 1940s and 50s to 1961 when she has been divorced. She goes from adolescent British Army officer to young married immigrant to sophisticated socialite in Argentina/Punta del Este. And from divorcee to the longtime mistress of a nice man with alcohol problems.
Carol started to drink during her first years in Argentina because she was shy in this new country, and drinking helped her cope with all the changes going on around her. Later it became a way to drown her sorrows.
Will the story end in 1961, or will it end in 2001, with Carol believing she’s dying of something in her pancreas? I think it’s best for the story to end in 1961, when she’s still young and beautiful. It would make a nice contemporary period piece.
And Carol now, almost seventy-six years old, with that aristocratic bearing, especially with her done up short grayish hair and a black outfit. She looks like a duchess living in the wrong environment. She’s a duchess living in the boondocks.
. She just can’t forget her aristocratic past. There’s no real way she can get adjusted to what her life is now and she doesn’t have the money to lead the kind of life she once did. Drinking to forget only numbs her. It makes her feel worse. And then she stops and eats nothing except for a yogurt. Funny thing about Carol: she looks great from a distance.
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Suitcase
Displacement: Being Nowhere
I always had a suitcase hanging from my hands. I was never safe. I was never sure about anything. Could I start a new project, a new anything? No, there was no time. I was leaving town. I had to fly. I would not be around to finish it. In that other place, the next place—wherever that would be. There, in that Promised Land I would start to live and do things there. I would be able to be myself there because it was going to be the home I had always searched for: My real home. A place where I would have the warmth and protection I had always wanted.
It was quite obvious that to be displaced had given me an up-in-the-air feeling. I kept
myself walking on that tightrope for a long time. There was nothing else I could do except say good-bye over and over again. There was nothing I could do except cry on the inside and smile on the outside while I did it. There was nothing else except cheer up the one or two people I would be leaving behind.
Should I accept this, accept that; accept this other thing, I would ask myself. Which is the right one, the right way? Which is the one I want? Where is it that I belong? Not in my own backyard—not anymore. Not in my lifetime.
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Hollywood Stud
My Hollywood Years and Beyond
Oh, yes, my dears. I was the wife of a movie star. My husband was what they called a real Latin Lover type. What a bastard he was, always strutting and showing off his manly charms! And his affairs with other women, just like the fans that adored him, were legion. “Osvaldo Saavedra certainly has it,” people would say to me almost daily. I would nod, smile and ask myself: “What does he have that he hasn’t already shown me a million times? Beats me.” But people still flocked to see his movies. Maybe they were fools. Maybe his movies just helped us become rich.
Osvaldo—you would think that would be a hard name to pronounce in English, but no. People learned it very quickly because of their enthusiasm for him. Of course, they twisted the o around a little bit and made it sound like ou, but that was natural. After all, they were only Americans, and they didn’t know any better. But they did love Osvaldo’s films and his Latin accent—the same accent that came in so handy when it just wasn’t convenient for him to be understood. Poor Osvaldo! He was a big baby trapped in the body of a hunk. He was a little boy in search of guidance, too shy and vulnerable for words. But that was only when the wrong mood struck him. At other times, when he was sure of himself he was, as I said, a real bastard. Very conniving and clever at getting what he wanted from almost anyone. I envied him. How does he do it? I asked myself that question all the time. He drives people nuts, but he seems so lovable that they have no choice but to give in to him.
Whatever he wanted, it was his just like that. And nobody, nobody at all, dared ask any questions. He was Osvaldo, and that was good enough for them. Osvaldo deserved all the privileges of stardom—he was It, the Latin It Boy par excellence. And, I, unfortunately, was the It Boy’s wife, his faithful keeper. I was the one who knew all the secrets and never breathed a word about them.
I can see him now. I can see Osvaldo wearing white trousers, a dark yellow shirt, dark sunglasses and a dark blue scarf around his neck. How jaunty and sure of himself he looked! How modern he seemed! He was always wearing the latest fashion, the latest thing from Paris, or Milan or even Hollywood. People used to say how coqueto Osvaldo was and how much his vanity amused them. It made them smile. He was a little boy right up to the end. My husband was the child we never had.
But it is not what I want to talk about all the time—it’s always been Osvaldo this, Osvaldo that. Enough already of that man! I can’t remember him forever, as if my own life didn’t exist. I have interests of my own; there are things that I can do to distract myself. But it’s him, always Osvaldo day and night. I’m sick of it! But Osvaldo is like a fatal disease and even now I can’t shake him off. Nothing I do allows me to forget. The man is everywhere—and I mean everywhere! He’s everywhere I don’t want him to be. Osvaldo is a ghost that shadows every minute of my life. His friends were no better than he was. The men were horny, at least most of them were, and the women all seemed to want my husband for themselves. I didn’t really mind that, except that they made me laugh: they were so obvious about their lust for him. They were so downright stupid! These women were sophisticated actresses and film executives? Nobody would have guessed that about them. They act like naïve schoolgirls around Osvaldo, always waiting for him to do something, say something special to them. And they never stopped coming over to our mansion, using the most absurd excuses to try to see him.
Finally I had enough, and one day I told Osvaldo so. The man just laughed in my face. Those women mean nothing to me, he said in his fakest Latin Lover voice. You are the only one, my darling, my sweet gauchita. Being nice to them is good for business. These silly fools expect me to play the smooth Latin Lover. How could I possibly disappoint those poor girls? No, mi gauchita, I can’t do that to them. They would never forgive me. Besides, there might be another Latin Lover waiting in the wings to take my place. Why should he take all the fame and all the money that belongs to me, to us?
Osvaldo lost his accent when he spoke with me, but with those women, his dear fans, you would think he’d just stepped off the boat coming over from Argentina. Even I could hardly understand him. But Osvaldo was right: the foreign accent was very good for business.
I met him in the early 1940s. I had gone down to Buenos Aires with Lisa, my best friend. Osvaldo was a waiter in a café downtown. He had the most beautiful dark brown eyes I’d ever seen and a smile even better than William Holden’s. When Osvaldo smiled, you could tell he meant it. He had his faults (and they were many), but he was no fake. Whatever else he was, Osvaldo was genuine. He didn’t seem to be a real person; he actually was one. And that drew people to him.
I thought that for a waiter, he was a little uppity. But his face was charming and sensitive. It was a good natured and ambitious young man’s face. He certainly had a virile, Latin lover face. He was no Valentino, but I’ll say one thing for him: Osvaldo had sex appeal to spare. No wonder he became Hollywood’s top Latin boy. And I became his keeper, his unofficial Mama wife.
His English was almost flawless, except when he had an audience. Then his accent was nice and thick, like an ad for a trip to South America. And he did look like a high class Latin, with his good looks and his refined ways. Even when he wore slacks and a plain white shirt, he still stood out.
Yea, he always stood out. There would be other handsome and sexy men at a party, but he would be the one women would gather around. When he walked in, they all stared. The men, of course, hated his guts. Osvaldo was so male, he had so much virility, that they just had to envy him. What does this guy have, anyway? They asked. But, he wasn´t one of them. Osvaldo had an exotic accent and good looks to go with it. The other men were the usual, there was nothing out of the ordinary about them.
How, did I, his wife, put up with his numerous liaisons? And, a more obvious question: Why did I put up with them, with him? Prestige is the answer to both.
How many women can say they´re married to the Great Latin Lover? Hardly any.
Yes, yes, I loved him. I was passionate about the guy. Nobody quite like him, as they always told me. But he was also a pain in the neck.
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Forbidden Love in Argentina
My Forbidden Love: Newsletter Two
There was no question about it.
I knew I loved him. I loved him, with or without the white clerical collar around his neck. I loved his eyes. I loved the way they looked at me even when they were not supposed to. And in the beginning, I loved running into him anywhere and everywhere. Later, when my love became something more solid and magical, I grew to hate running into him when he was surrounded by a roomful of people. How could we have time for each other that way? I wanted to steal him away from them, but I was scared. I dared, but I did not dare do it. And how could I dream that a future for us actually existed when people called him Padre? Was he a Father to me? Was he replacing my own father, my first authority figure and was that why I loved him? No. I have thought about it often since then. I have gone over it in my mind, and if I am convinced about anything, it is this: the man I loved was a man. He was a man with faults, a man with some good qualities. To me he was not a priest. My heart did not see him that way. It refused to tell me lies. My heart did not feel him as a priest, a hot subject for some juicy gossip before, during, or after Mass. I understood he way I felt when we were in the same room together. And I discovered that we did not have to touch to love each other. Had they known about it, the gossipmongers would have wrong: sex was important, but it was not what it was all about.
We felt our love differently. We were in an unusual situation, and nobody needed to know anything about it. We were hidden lovers and we played our roles accordingly.
There were no rules except for the ones we made.
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Malena
Malena, A Woman’s Life in the Buenos Aires of the 40s
It takes place in San Telmo, one of the most traditional (and Bohemian) neighborhoods in the city. It´s the neighborhood where she was born. The name Malena is also the name of a famous tango, the name of an unhappy woman who drinks to hide her pain and sorrow. And, judging by the lyrics of the tango, Malena had a lot of pain and sorrow in her life. But why did they call the protagonist of my new book Malena? Why when she was not that unhappy? Not at first, anyway.
She didn´t want to get married. A carefree existence: Malena wanted that more than anything else in the world.
She didn´t like to be tied down to anything or any one.
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09/22/2007
NY Times Letter
Dear Editor, I am glad that the mortgage rules will be revised, though, unfortunately it is too late to help me. My condo in Atlanta foreclosed in November 2005. I was a victim of predatory lending and mortgage fraud. Yes, I signed the papers, but I trusted the mortgage officer and the real estate woman who was working with him. They were the professionals, the ones who should have known better.
I think that if I have suffered greatly as a result of this horrible experience, they and people like them should, at the very least, be put out of business. It is all about money. It always is, at least to them, because of their commisions, etc. But to us, the borrowers, buying a house means wanting to have a home. Emotions are involved even when we are advised to think things coldly, in a business-like way.
No one has a right to play with or take advantage of our situation, especially at such a vulnerable time. Email: haedo1881@yahoo.com
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06/10/2007
Nadia
Sunday, June 10, 2007: She died 8 years ago today. It was a Thursday and that morning, they came to tell me that her bedroom had caught fire. Nadia did not have enough money to pay her light bill and she had gone to sleep after lighting a candle. Suddenly she must have smelled something funny, ran to the kitchen, trying to find things like saucepans, anything, to stop it, but it had already spread. Her three dogs-- Otranto, Niebla and Rubio--must have barked like crazy to get the neighbors´attention and she must have yelled also, but nobody came until smoke started to come out her front door. They found her clutching her house keys. Otranto and Niebla died with her. Rubio had managed to go to the kitchen where a window was open just a crack. That saved him and he came to live with me. I still miss my friend. She was sometimes difficult to take, not an easy person by any means, but I admired her because she was a self made woman. A 6-year-old immigrant from the Ukraine who grew up to travel and live in NYC, Europe and other parts of the world. Quite a woman. When I met her, Nadia was down and out, her family had abandoned her, but I believed that her life could be better. And for a little while, just 4 months and 7 days, it did improve. She ate regularly, her dogs ate and she had someone to spend time with. Then, without warning, Nadia and her baggy pants, her beat up tennis shoes and her dark brown eyes with the bags under them, were gone.
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