Lana and I are sitting at the Garden Cafe, in Wichita, Kansas (just because it is so Mediterranean, and Lana claims I am very Mediterranean myself). She is drinking cappuccino, smiling a Saganesque "certain sourir," probably dreaming of the sunny Italy, since it is rather murky outside and the nasty Kansas wind is swirling dry leaves and plastic bags around and under the parked cars. Inside here, everything is full of light, just like in Italy: the creamy walls, the pastel floral drapes on the tall windows and the white-painted gazebo in the middle of the restaurant. Soft, vibrant, larger-than-life watercolors of fruits and vegetables enhance already warm atmosphere. If anything is missing, it is the sound of Modugnio's song "Volare, o-oh," to make me forty years younger and back in Belgrade, Yugoslavia where in the fifties, after the San Remo Festival, everybody was singing or whistling "Nel blu, di pinto di blu..." And the skies were clear and blue -- like the new-born-baby's eyes -- everywhere, in Yugoslavia, Italy, and Greece and all over the Mediterranean. Young as we were then, my brother and I, as well as our friends -- like Modugnio -- we all felt so free and light, ready to fly (volare o-oh) and sing (cantare o-o-o-oh)
Yes, young and happy we were then. Now, with a deep, nostalgic sigh, I am digging into my Caesar's Salad, which I have ordered not only because I wish I were in Rome, but because here, in America, everybody is talking about cholesterol count and weight watching, and I am an American now.
"Mira, why are you smiling? What are you thinking just now," Lana is asking with a playful gleam in her eyes. But she has a thick mustache of cappuccino cream on her face (like the TV milk commercial) and I cannot stop laughing wildly, while her eyes turn big in surprise, round like two saucers.
"A woman, sitting at the table in the corner, has just reminded me of someone from my youth," I smile again.
Looking discreetly in that direction, Lana excitedly turns to me, "Please tell me about her. That woman from your youth, I mean." And she nestles in her seat, prepared for a long story.
"Her name was Anica. It is not pronounced Anika but Ahnitsa. It is a Slavic name, a diminutive of Anna, like the French Annette." And I smile again. Thinking of Anica, one would have to smile.
"Anica? I have never heard that name before," Lana exclaims, intrigued.
"Anica was a rare human being. Her soul was deep like the Siberian Lake Baikal (her father was a Russian immigrant), her heart big like the Pannonian Plains (her mother was a Serb). My husband liked her most of all my friends."
"Oh, you must tell me all about her. She sounds like a fascinating woman." Lana implores, her eyes full of question marks.
"I don' t know where to start. Yes, Anica was a fascinating person. Wait till you hear the whole story, then decide."
" What do you mean? This sounds more and more intriguing," Lana insists.
"When I met her, Anica had so much naiveté in her, that one could call her a girl, although she was twenty-six at the time. In our office, nobody really knew much about Anica. She was extremely nice to everyone, nicer than anyone else, but she was also shy and very private. While others gossiped, she worked. She always found time to help others, always volunteered to do what others didn't want to do. While other women spent much time fixing their hair and make-up in front of the large mirror in the lady's room, Anica sat quietly working. She never used any make-up and her hair didn't need any styling. It was healthy and naturally wavy.
"Was she attractive?" Lana wants to know. And, in my mind's eye I see a tall, healthy looking young woman, with brownish hair and warm, Slavic eyes, her shy smile and quiet, kind demeanor.
"I think she was, but not in the way that men would turn around to see her or whistle after her."
Lana smiles knowingly and I continue:" Anica had an active, busy life, not only in the office. She was always on the go, interested in so many things. For instance, she would drop unexpectedly to see me, just to say hello, as she called it, on her way to yoga class, an international club session, a foreign language class, or a volunteer work of some kind."
"Oh, so yoga was popular in Yugoslavia even then?"
"Sure. We had some really good instructors. Mine was trained in India, for instance. I enjoyed classes myself. I was interested in many things myself; therefore Anica and I saw each other outside of the office, too. She majored in English, as well."
"What did women, Anica and you, for instance, wear in those days?" Lana is curious to know.
"Curiosity, thy name is woman," one could rightfully miss-quote Shakespeare.
The question makes me think: again, I see Anica in her clean, starched white blouses and a simple, dark skirt. I don't remember anything else, except the white swimsuit at the Sava River beach. I remember my own white blouses, but some other dresses as well: a skin-colored, fitted shantung raw silk that did turn men's heads and made them whistle (Mediterranean men do that easily), or a plum-colored, floral dress with a rich, wide skirt I usually wore with my ballerina shoes. Oh, and I remember all the dances in those same shoes.
"Both Anica and I wore white blouses to work, but variety of other things outside it, I presume. The fashion was similar to yours. The youth in Belgrade dressed American, danced to the American music, as well as Italian and French, watched and liked good, American movies, but also Italian, Swedish, French and others. People traveled, and Anica was quite a world traveler. She spoke several foreign languages: Russian, English, French and German."
"That's impressive. Back to clothing: did you wear high heels or just ballerina shoes? I don't know why I need to know that?" Lana smiles.
"Both Anica and I were somewhat taller than the rest. Other women wore high heels to work almost all the time. She and I didn't. She never wore heels, I wore small ones. Remember so called Louis heels? They were just what I needed: not too tall, but elegant and feminine. We wore them in the fifties, but I never stopped loving them. Anica dressed sportier, also in such a way that she successfully covered her body and no curves were showing (God forbid!). I loved fitted dresses, but also the ones that had rich, swirly skirts."
"She sounds like a Plain Jane, but I like her," Lana concludes. "Was she religious?"
"I'm sure yes, but her clothes had nothing to do with it. Her parents were not young when they had her, and they raised her in that way. She was an old-fashioned good girl with the education and skills of a modern woman. Definitely a person to be respected and loved."
And, again, in front of me, like on a movie screen, appears Anica's face: her big, warm, Slavic eyes and a ready smile, fresh and clean like in a baby. A sensitive, kind, talented and creative girl.
"Did she date anyone?" Lana interrupts my memories.
"That will be answered in due time." I am teasing.
"I can gather the answer already." She challenges.
"Don't be too sure. There is more to come. At home, Anica helped her mother cook, bake, clean, or wash. In spare time, she would sew or knits, as well as baby sit for her sister's kids, help the neighbors' children with homework or translate from foreign languages. In fact, she and I often consulted each other whenever we had difficulties in translating. She and her parents did a lot of gardening, preserving and pickling and Anica was good at that, too."
"I'm surprised some man hadn't grabbed her for marriage. She would've been perfect." Lana smiles at me, question marks in her eyes.
"Anica was a connoisseur of classical music. She had a large collection of records that she had brought from her travels abroad. Her father had some old, beautiful Russian records of Shalyapin, many old folk songs and gypsy music, too. After her tours, Anica corresponded with the people she had met abroad. She had many friends in different countries. I'll never forget one of those."
"You got to meet some?"
"Sure. A young woman from Holland. Her name was Lineke. Fat and pimpled, with a round, shiny face and greasy hair, I could never successfully connect her with that lovely country of serene landscapes with windmills, canals, radiant tulips and friendly, hardworking people."
"Yes, that's how I imagine Holland, too, although I haven't been there."
"Anica corresponded with Lineke for a long time. She probably invited her to come and spend summer with her, although Anica and her parents were not well off at all. Lineke came unexpectedly that summer, with all her pimples, greasy hair and no luggage whatsoever. Anica had to give her everything, from a toothbrush to an umbrella, including a swimsuit and some pocket money. Naturally, Anica took her everywhere, showed her around and introduced her to all the people she knew. She brought her to the office as well. That's where the problem started."
"Aha, we are getting into some really interesting stuff here. Lineke will be an undercover spy." Lana is kidding.
"Hardly. They are usually beautiful. It helps," I retort immediately.
"Maybe her pimples were part of the cover-up scheme?" Lana develops her theory.
"Oh, no. The pimples were real. They never disappeared, but Lineke did."
"What do you mean? Is it a murder story?" Lana makes a disgusted face. She has seen too many of those on TV.
"Not exactly, but it certainly got Anica worried. She even consulted a family friend, a policeman. The days were passing, no Lineke. Finally, she reappeared: in a good mood, pimpled and greasy haired as ever. She had spent time with Djoka, in his apartment. Djoka was a guy from the other department: dark-eyed, dark-haired, with the same greasiness about him that Lineke had. I don't mean his hair only but the whole personality. He went around with a permanent smile plastered on his face. It reminded me of the thought:" One can smile and smile, and be a villain." Djoka was the only one who closed his door when he made phone calls, some distressed damsels and crying girls were often emerging from his office. He was just that kind of a guy."
"Funny name, Djoka. Sounds like a jock."
"Quite appropriate. Djoka, in Yugoslavia, is the same as Dick in America."
"Oh. It's fitting then."
"Quite so. When Lineke returned safe and sound, Anica was relieved and happy. She forgave them immediately, without really understanding it. Nobody paid much attention when she contemplated, aloud, how easily friendship could be killed by lack of trust. Lineke stayed till the end of the summer, then returned to Holland. This time she had some luggage. I don't believe she bothered to send a thank-you note to Anica. To Djoka - maybe."
"Back to Anica. What happened to her?" Lana cradles her face in both hands, her elbows on the table, her, eyes fixed on mine.
"Oh, she stayed the same giving person that made everybody happy whenever she was around. She loved everybody and understood everything. You know how people who are not happy themselves know how to make others happy."
"I don't know. I am not sure. I don't believe that unhappy people make anyone else happy. Why do you say Anica was unhappy? She had so much going for her. I thought she was happy."
"I'll tell you what I mean. It needs some explanation. For several years, Anica had been in love with a man some twenty years her senior, a disappointed loner, out of touch with life. After the divorce, he had shut himself up in his messy, cluttered, deteriorated home and was not much seen since then. He did not have visitors either, except for a woman, a skinny, arrogant typist -- I forgot her name -- who visited him on a regular basis. Actually, she had a key to his house. I believe she did his shopping for him, too. He declared he did not want her around, called her a stupid bitch, but never took his key from her."
"Did they have an affair?"
"Most likely. Anica was worried that he was going to marry that typist. I felt sure that he was not going to do anything, take no action. Things had to happen to him. Poor Anica had got entangled in that strange psychological triangle, bringing in her devotion, patience, and stubbornness. You have no idea how many times I'd told her to go out with someone her age, get married, and have children. She loved children. No way. Nothing worked. I had tried everything."
"Like what? What can one try?" Lana is asking, genuinely concerned.
"For a long time I had just listened patiently. Then, I repeatedly told her to drop that loser or she might end up becoming one herself. When nothing worked, I turned it around and suggested how to seduce him."
"What? Are you crazy?" Laughing with tears in her eyes, Lana can hardly speak:" Why would she seduce that good-for-nothing piece of dung? What would she need him for?"
"I didn't really want her to seduce him. I don't believe in it. I also believed he was safely dead enough not to notice anything. When I suggested dressing more femininely, like other girls of her age, I hoped she would go out to a dance or something and find someone of her age. I also planned on breaking that sick, stagnant atmosphere, causing something to happen, to finally let some fresh air of real life touch all those people. Not for a moment did I expect her to seduce him, of course. Not to mention that I myself had no idea how to seduce anyone. The movies are full of those scenes but I never believed it had anything to do with real life."
"That makes sense. Seriously, who would ever do any of the sleazy things the movies show? You'd have to be crazy, drunk, on drugs, or whatever else that puts you out of your right mind."
"Exactly. I was kidding, of course, knowing that seduction was out of question for any girl in our circle. We were painfully shy around the opposite sex, although we were educated, well read and well traveled. We had no life experience whatsoever and could only hope it didn't show too much."
"I know what you mean. The same here. But what did you suggest? Let's have your seduction techniques out in the open. You may be an expert in disguise." Knowing me quite well, Lana laughs at the paradox till the tears come out of her eyes.
"Oh, I don't think I've ever qualified as an expert, disguised or not, however there was nobody in that triangle that would know the difference. I told Anica to dress more femininely and attractively, meaning: to cut and curl her hair, wear fitted skirts and high heels, and to buy a good perfume. That was the extent of my knowledge on the subject. This still was more than she knew. I was married, after all. That counted for some experience, at least in Anica's eyes." Now both Lana and I laugh till tears come to our eyes and people at the surrounding tables start looking at us questioningly. Nobody has that much fun in Kansas. Under normal conditions, that is."
" Did you remember to suggest black lace, too? So, the old school of seduction is not forgotten?" Lana literally chokes with sustained laughter. "What happened? Any success...if seducing that loser could be called a success."
"I did not see Anica for a long time. I changed my job and didn't work with her anymore, but we stayed friends anyway."
"Where did you work?"
"In a library. Anica stayed in the business firm. When I finally saw her again, I forgot about the seduction scheme, having been absorbed with my own life and work. When she came to visit me, I almost whistled, like the men do when they see an attractive woman. She had done what I'd told her and the results were astonishing. Her hair was short and perky, and she looked much younger. Her legs were great in high heels and I finally got to see her body. It was very shapely. Anica was quite attractive! We would have never known. She was not kidding, either. It was not only her perfume; there was something genuinely intriguing about new-Anica. But, she had no time, and couldn't stay to talk much. She only wanted me to see "the new her" and said she would talk to me more the next time we meet."
Lana's face lights with genuine empathy: "I'm so glad Anica finally realized what an attractive woman she actually was, not a shy girl anymore!"
" I don't remember now whether I saw her again before our crucial conversation..." I started.
"Crucial?" A shadow of worry passes over Lana's face. "Get on with it, please. I cannot wait."
"I remember having seen her in a store, in passing. She didn't look too good and I asked if she was feeling well. She started crying. I took her to a small park, outside, and we sat on a bench and talked."
"Oh, my God, I know something awful had happened to that poor girl."
"Yes, but...Don't worry, Lana, wait till you hear it all. Anica wanted to talk but didn't know how to start. She was going around and around "kao kisa oko Kragujevca," as the Serbian saying goes.
"What's 'cow kish ah oh koh Kragooyeftsah'?"
"Oh, that just means 'like the rain around Kragujevac city,' which means lingering, not directly. But I knew how to deal with Anica. Sometimes I just had to pull words out of her mouth like the dentist pulls teeth. I had a feeling that she must have done something I wouldn't have approved of. I asked her if she had sent that man a mushy love letter and the typist caught it and harassed her; or, if she walked in front of his home late in the night and the typist poured dirty dish water on her, or something of that sort. When I insisted on the answer, she softly replied:
'Oh, it's something much worse...this time,' and she didn't even dare to look at me while talking.
'Never mind, Anica, just spit it out, you will feel better.' I urged her, trying to help.
'You will be mad at me,' Anica dared to lift her eyes from her shoes and briefly look into mine.
'Since when does it make any difference? You know I can't be mad at you. Only God knows why. Come on, big girl.'
'This time it's serious. Very serious. I can't tell anyone.'
'Finally something serious. If you haven't murdered him, the rest is fine.'
'You don't understand. I've done it. You know what I mean. I've gone all the way. I had to do it. I had to try all in my power.' Blushing to the roots of her hair, Anica focused on the tips of her shoes again.
"It was my turn to be silent now. I was not sure if I'd understood her right. I thought I knew her: she had never kissed a man in her life, not to mention anything more. I looked at her in disbelief, but her head was sinking even lower.
My heart went to her. Poor Anica. I had always scolded her, always told her what to do, what not to do. She asked my opinion and my advice, never really taking it, because she thought I was 'against her love.' Just once she had done what I'd told her, and look what happened, just because she wanted to do everything for that wrong, wrong man. This was all my fault; never mind my good intentions. Look what happened. Mea culpa, mea culpa.
Then I started noticing more details. She had a crushed and crumpled look, her clothes carelessly put together and unmatched, hair not fixed. Her eyes full of suffering, like the eyes of a stray dog kicked out of all homes. Poor Anica. I was never going to scold her again. But what could I tell her to make her feel better now? She mustn't know what I really think and how bad I really feel. It won't help her. I collect myself and fake light-heartedness:
'Is that all? What is so shocking about it? You are not a minor, almost thirty. You haven't done anything new or original. People do that daily. It is rather natural, you know. He wouldn't have been my choice under any circumstances, as I had explained many times, but...Anyway, you are a woman now. Welcome to the club." And I hugged her heartily.
Anica smiled a big, shy smile of relief and the words poured out of her in a torrent:'You don't know how much this means to me. I have no one else I may confide in. I hope I am not pregnant.'
'I don't think so. That can be checked, of course, if it bothers you too much. I'll be glad to help you. We've never talked about those things, but married women live with that uncertainty. Especially when the times are not right for a baby. Join the club, my dear! Now you have one more thing to worry about, in case you didn't have enough.'
'I think I'm all right. I hope you understand why I had to go all the way. I had to make things clear, to make myself clear to him. After all, what is it that keeps him with that stupid typist? What can she do that I cannot? People always say that sex makes all the difference in a relationship. I still don't see how.' Anica looked at me questioningly, her big, Slavic eyes suddenly old and tired.
'I did all you'd suggested. It must've worked because... he... we...Well, it happened. But then, I expected that difference that people talk about, but he didn't even call. After what we've had together, he never called. He'd never called before either, but it's different now. We hadn't been close before. I called him, and she answered the phone. She said he wasn't there. He is always there. What a lie. What humiliation. When I called again, he answered. He said I had a wrong number. He knows my voice just as I know his. There was nothing I could do. It was awful. Now, it's much worse than before. I cannot understand it.'
"Mira, I cannot take it." Lana touches my hand to stop me. "I feel I love that poor girl. I could kill the bastard. Please, just tell me how it all ended," Lana interrupts suddenly tired and without previous enthusiasm.
"Don't worry, Lana. Life has a way of settling matters that we cannot settle ourselves."
"I'm not sure that things resolve simply and successfully often enough," Lana sighs deeply, but smiles as well.
" Anything is possible in life, as you know. And you are a writer, although you deny it sometimes, out of modesty. Now, knowing the characters -- I'll give you two endings -- you tell me which one you believe really took place. Here is the first: nothing happened. People stay what they are. Probably, that man and the typist are still together, Anica is still full of love and understanding and his home is still falling apart. One day it will fall on him and his lover and kill them both."
"Oh, Mira. It's too Edgar Allan Poe-like. Give me the other option," Lana insists, seriously.
"The other one is my choice. I am known to cry in the mushy movies and want happy endings even if they don't sound realistic. In short, Anica is married with two children. Both she and her husband love nature and have built a small weekend house almost entirely with their own hands. They do things together and are a normal, happy family. Now, I wouldn't mention the past to Anica solely because it doesn't even sound like something that could have happened. It is a different story with different characters. That Anica does not exist anymore. I don't think she ever remembers the past. It doesn't sound real, almost like a strange dream."
"I like this ending. The first one may make a better story, but this is life."
"Yes. And it is the true ending. But it all happened many years ago. If Anica is alive, she is a grandmother now. That man was twenty years older then, so he may not be living anymore."
"Oh, he was so passive, noli me tangere (don't touch me) type of person. Even dying probably was too much to do, so he just procrastinated. I shouldn't be so mean, but I don't like weak and passive people. Like other parasites, they cause so much damage to others."
"Don't worry, Lana, life takes care of that too. Like a river -- my favorite simile -- it runs on, and we either swim or drown. Some float like dung..."
And we both laugh in celebration of life.