“…a sort of colossal beggar vainly seeking the alms of a benevolent glance in the middle of the Square, had taken pity on this other beggar, the poor pygmy who went around with no shoes on his feet, no roof over his head, blowing on his fingers, clothed in rags, fed on what is thrown away.”
September 1994
I know her as Baba. She comes into the house and into any door that will open. No one would arrest this old woman, wrinkles like 100 rings of a fallen cedar, hair of a black and white photo, mercilessly healthy enough to wander the past 5 years since the revolution in homeless poverty. I have come to hate her for invading my privacy, for asking me incessantly for help. For knowing one English word, ‘Shoes.’
If she gets into your room there is no way to get her out without physically pushing her. She won’t respond to your insistence, your demands, your pointing. Raising your voice does nothing. She begs and pleads, her face turns in a clench to the side, her words sound like prayer. She looks very much as though she begs for her life.
Every now and then, my host family feeds her, giving her a bowl of soup and bread. She sits on the porch and eats quickly. One of us must stay with her, however, because she tries to take the bowl and the flatware. Today it’s my turn. I watch the rim of the spoon come to her very old, very drawn mouth, and it makes me want her to keep the spoon and the bowl. But I take it, and I watch her as she walks down the steps, trying the door handles on each adjoining apartment in the courtyard. They are all locked.
Where I Live
My host family consists of a mother and a father, both pediatricians in their 50s. I drink tea out of Russian silver. One day, I walk in on a family who was handing my host father a wad of cash and a bottle of tzuica. He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.
Presence
In the big square, I drink beer and smoke local cigarettes. My hair is up in a bandana, and I’m still wearing my Missouri tan. I flirt with the girl across the table. To my left, I hear the familiar sounds of the begging children, foreign entreaties so soft and quiet, your first reaction is to swat at the air as if at buzzing insects. But they never fly away, even after you hand them a few coins.
“The Gypsy women cripple them so that people will give more money, from pity. It’s shameful.”
I hear this repeated at café tables throughout the country, throughout the year. Each child looks and sounds the same, like insects.
One girl is so small that I cannot hear her voice, and so quiet that I can barely see her. I am convinced that she must be much older than the 5-year old body she inhabits, because she is the only one wise enough to separate me from my larger bills. For weeks at a time I see her daily. She recognizes me from across the square and runs. Sometimes I can escape in time, but she’s so hard to see. Sometimes I’m mesmerized by the little body floating across the cobblestones. If I’ve already opened my beer, I can finish it by the time she reaches me, how great is the square, the distance, I mean.
I talk to her in Romanian, but children aren’t patient with my grasp of the language. To them, I must sound like they do to me, tiny and pathetic, and meaningless. I give her money until I no longer see her. After the spring arrives, I never see her again, and it’s sad in the way that you grow accustomed to a routine, not seeing this little girl who is more a habit than anything. There are always other children, but they don’t rouse in me what little sympathy I have left for other people.
Baba
“Shewz! Shewz!” she repeats at my doorway.
“I don’t speak Romanian,” I repeat, although I speak it well.
“Shewz! Shewz!”
“I told you, I don’t understand.” I’m growing impatient with Baba. I am just a few pages from finishing Hugo’s masterpiece of compassion and humanity, and I’ve lost all sense of mine.
“Shewz!”
For a moment, I try to concentrate on what she’s saying. This word doesn’t sound like any Romanian word I know.
“Shewz! Shewz!” She points to a pair of boots sitting in the corner.
She’s speaking English.
“Go!” I raise my voice and point.
“Shoes! Shoes!”
I raise my hand as if a warning to strike. “Get out!”
“Shoes! Shoes!”
And I put my hands on her, this terribly old woman. I push her through the door, and she gives way surprisingly easily. Under the mounds of mismatched colored clothing she seems to be a heavy woman, but it’s not the case, it’s just an appearance. She’s light. She doesn’t scream like I expect. She doesn’t fall to the ground and wail, like I expect, cause I feel like the older brother who pushes the annoying little sister and who looks around waiting for a parent to come yelling when the little sister wails unnecessarily loud to draw attention to the scene. She doesn’t curse me or spit or cry or fall or wail. She says, ‘Shoes!’ and points to the corner through the door which I’m now shutting on her.
I listen to her try the door handles on each of the adjoining apartments in the courtyard. They are all locked.
Weeks and weeks
From time to time, I am startled by a sound at the door. I turn during these moments and see the door handle bend downwards, futilely, an old woman on the other side patiently testing the lock. This goes on for nearly a year.
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