in the sea, and turned himself into a whale. All of this was accompanied by sound effects—growls, beating wings, birdcalls—so authentic that I always imagined my grandmother as the animal in the story. Often a fantastic animal, like the ones found in her stories; an animal, that is, no longer, or never before, or soon-to-be found in nature.
Late one night, after she finished one of her stories, the stray headlight of a passing car shone through the window and I was stunned to see, not my grandmother, but a red fox, with a ring of white fur around its neck, stretched out on her bed.
I cried out, and Re started barking. A moment later, the lamp came on and there was my grandmother, sitting up in bed. She was wearing a red nightdress, with a white shawl around her shoulders.
“It’s all right, child,” she murmured, coming over and laying her palm against my cheek. “You were dreaming.”
I shook my head.
“Yes, you were dreaming,” she nodded.
I turned onto my side and she rubbed my back and sang a lullaby.
The next morning I found a white whisker on the floor. Re’s whiskers were black, and it was too long to have come from the cat that visited us. I saved the whisker, keeping it inside a silver music box that once belonged to my grandmother. When you raised the lid, and saw yourself in the mirrored interior, that same lullaby played.
W HEN MY GRANDMOTHER grew infirm, my father hired a young Albanian woman to take care of me. Her name was Evgénia. She was thin and pale, with sharp features and straight black hair. Her blue eyes shone brightly in her pale face. She spoke softly, with a strong accent. A neat dresser, she favored plain dresses and cardigans and rubber sole shoes. Outdoors she always wore a hat.
My grandmother told me Evgénia had lost her entire family when the Nazis overran Albania. Evgénia herself had escaped into Macedonia, then Turkey, and using what money she had, bribed her way onto a passenger ship bound for America. That was all my grandmother knew, for it wasn’t territory Evgénia liked to revisit. At first, my grandmother was wary of Evgénia, as she would have been of any outsider. But Evgénia won her over. She never shirked her duties, cut corners, or complained. She didn’t allow me to leave the house in clothes that were not clean and pressed. She never lost her head. And she was a good cook. In short, we were lucky to have her. Yet, though quietly good-humored, she remained a mysterious sort of character, and by her own peculiar logic, my grandmother found this comforting, reasoning that such a person would be self-involved, not inclined to meddle.
It was true that Evgénia was a private person—averse to small talk, comfortable with silence—but she was not selfish, and I never knew her to be dishonest. More trusting of children than adults, she was, in fact, a very tender woman, without whose devotion my own childhood would have been far rockier.
In time I learned more about her, but at first there were only these facts: she was unmarried, lived alone in Brooklyn, took three subways to get home, learned English at Berlitz, and had come to us through an agency, with excellent references.
She didn’t touch alcohol or tobacco, but she drank many cups of black tea during the day and for lunch always ate a salted cucumber and a hard-boiled egg.
When I asked why she never varied her lunch, she replied, “Eggs give you energy, cucumber refreshes the spirit.”
That was one of the few times she referred to the spirit, my grandmother’s favorite topic.
Evgénia came into my life when I was eight years old. The previous year we had moved into a bigger apartment. Again it was dark, with most of the windows facing north, but I had my own room finally. My grandmother occupied the room beside it, through a door which I liked to have open when I slept.
Every Sunday Evgénia helped my grandmother into her best black dress and took her
Late one night, after she finished one of her stories, the stray headlight of a passing car shone through the window and I was stunned to see, not my grandmother, but a red fox, with a ring of white fur around its neck, stretched out on her bed.
I cried out, and Re started barking. A moment later, the lamp came on and there was my grandmother, sitting up in bed. She was wearing a red nightdress, with a white shawl around her shoulders.
“It’s all right, child,” she murmured, coming over and laying her palm against my cheek. “You were dreaming.”
I shook my head.
“Yes, you were dreaming,” she nodded.
I turned onto my side and she rubbed my back and sang a lullaby.
The next morning I found a white whisker on the floor. Re’s whiskers were black, and it was too long to have come from the cat that visited us. I saved the whisker, keeping it inside a silver music box that once belonged to my grandmother. When you raised the lid, and saw yourself in the mirrored interior, that same lullaby played.
W HEN MY GRANDMOTHER grew infirm, my father hired a young Albanian woman to take care of me. Her name was Evgénia. She was thin and pale, with sharp features and straight black hair. Her blue eyes shone brightly in her pale face. She spoke softly, with a strong accent. A neat dresser, she favored plain dresses and cardigans and rubber sole shoes. Outdoors she always wore a hat.
My grandmother told me Evgénia had lost her entire family when the Nazis overran Albania. Evgénia herself had escaped into Macedonia, then Turkey, and using what money she had, bribed her way onto a passenger ship bound for America. That was all my grandmother knew, for it wasn’t territory Evgénia liked to revisit. At first, my grandmother was wary of Evgénia, as she would have been of any outsider. But Evgénia won her over. She never shirked her duties, cut corners, or complained. She didn’t allow me to leave the house in clothes that were not clean and pressed. She never lost her head. And she was a good cook. In short, we were lucky to have her. Yet, though quietly good-humored, she remained a mysterious sort of character, and by her own peculiar logic, my grandmother found this comforting, reasoning that such a person would be self-involved, not inclined to meddle.
It was true that Evgénia was a private person—averse to small talk, comfortable with silence—but she was not selfish, and I never knew her to be dishonest. More trusting of children than adults, she was, in fact, a very tender woman, without whose devotion my own childhood would have been far rockier.
In time I learned more about her, but at first there were only these facts: she was unmarried, lived alone in Brooklyn, took three subways to get home, learned English at Berlitz, and had come to us through an agency, with excellent references.
She didn’t touch alcohol or tobacco, but she drank many cups of black tea during the day and for lunch always ate a salted cucumber and a hard-boiled egg.
When I asked why she never varied her lunch, she replied, “Eggs give you energy, cucumber refreshes the spirit.”
That was one of the few times she referred to the spirit, my grandmother’s favorite topic.
Evgénia came into my life when I was eight years old. The previous year we had moved into a bigger apartment. Again it was dark, with most of the windows facing north, but I had my own room finally. My grandmother occupied the room beside it, through a door which I liked to have open when I slept.
Every Sunday Evgénia helped my grandmother into her best black dress and took her
Similar Books
Underworld Lover (A Guardian Angel Romance #2)
haron Hamilton
The Folly
M. C. Beaton
Bill Dugan_War Chiefs 04
Quanah Parker
The Prospects
Daniel Halayko
Knockout
John Jodzio
The Case of Lisandra P.
Hélène Grémillon
Clash of Eagles
Alan Smale
Delicate Chaos
Jeff Buick