	RodMer Short Story Package EE Annika and Cleopatra
by Merike Lugus	for on-line reading now in your browser

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Here is Short Story Package EE, a short story by Merike Lugus.

You can also download this package in rtf format.

This is the last in a series of five stories about an immigrant girl, Annika, who ended up in Germany, then Sweden and then Canada after WWII. This was not an unusual route for tens of thousands of DP's, or Displaced Persons, as they were called.

Annika is now a young married woman with two children. She is still struggling to understand herself and sometimes has trouble distinguishing between magical thinking and reality.

An earlier version of the story served as the basis for the screenplay of a short film Oxanna by Paula Tiberius a number of years ago.

ANNIKA AND CLEOPATRA

Approximately 3,600 words

I do love him, thinks Annika, reversing her opinion of three seconds ago. Roger is a good person. Otherwise, she reasons, I wouldn't have married him. Her internal lie detector switches on a current of tiny flashes near the corner of her left eyelid.

The same question day after day has turned soggy like the weather. She feels dragged-down weary.

Assume the worst and move on, she thinks.

Say the question is: how?

Sure, she knows about the fifty ways to leave your lover, but the song doesn't mention children. She loves the song, though. Makes her think it needn't be so heavy.

Just step on the bus, Gus...

Anything rhyme with Annika? With a name like that, she'll never find a theme song. Annika to her is synonymous with braids, skinny legs and a shyness bordering on xenophobia. In reality the dark braids are long gone. And Roger says he adores skinny legs. But she's seen him glancing at voluptuous ones. At the moment the thought is enough to make her eyes blur. Heavy tears just around the corner, pending. Let out one single one and they'd all follow suit and soon there'd be a flood. No way. She'll square her shoulders, lead the Crusade for the Happiness of the Children. Absorb the heaviness.

Eyelid throbbing, she gets her things together for work. A part-time job at a flower shop. Gets home at the same time as the children. For the first time, they both go to school full day.

Out the door, she almost collides with the mailman, who takes the opportunity to hand her the letter he was about to slip through the slot.

Something about the letter stops her from stuffing it into her bag, where she'd discover it a month later. The envelope is a luminous blue, the blue of royalty. The lettering is in thick gold, each letter a tiny work of art. It's the top left corner that attracts her. It appears to be written in some sort of hieroglyphics. But the name CLEOPATRA pops out boldly at the top. The letters have a life of their own. She holds the envelope at an angle wondering if they contain some sort of holograms that make them leap about like fire. She rips open the envelope.

Congratulations! She's a winner, she's told. And what an unusual prize. So she won't work that day, she decides. Goes instead to the address indicated in the letter, this being the advised day to collect her prize.

Annika smiles to herself on the way to the bus-stop, amazed that she is following through on such a whim. In essence, she thinks herself to be a serious, practical person.

Roger laughs at this. She's the least practical person he knows, basing her life, as she does, on serendipity and whimsy.

Such as? she wants to know.

Oh come on! For instance, just to pick one, the teapot fiasco. Anyone else on this planet would be satisfied with a nice ceramic one, but you! How long did it take you to find it? It must be the wackiest one in existence. And completely non-functional...

We use it all the time, Annika protested indignantly.

You do, but I don't like burning my knuckles. And the lid, you practically have to get a shoehorn to get it out. And that's saying nothing about the cost. How much did you pay for it?

Annika looks away. Isn't he tired of repeating himself so many times?

You know the price, she says. In a year it will be forgotten but we'll still have the teapot. She doesn't mention his collection of rare stamps.

Lately she's noticed strong urges to be contrary. To not have dinner ready when Roger comes home. To not remember a cake for her mother-in-law's birthday. To take long drives to the botanical gardens, or wander through the zoo alone, with no explanation of where she's been. The first time Roger called her willful she felt wounded, as if Roger had no idea of who she was. But then, she had to admit she scarcely knew herself. Could not understand the recklessness with which she drove the car when alone. Her inability to focus on simple matters like whether to store the dishtowels in a drawer or a cupboard.

When feeling the most restless, her mind turns to its newest discovery. Their small house in the suburbs has a tiny garden. But lately, and only sometimes, Annika finds a small opening in the fence, which leads to the edge of a four-lane highway. On the other side of it, the garden continues. Through some strange oversight, no one knows about this place, even though it's at the very edge of an ocean. And this is strange too, because, in fact, they live in the heart of the continent. This small garden is bounded by crumbling stone archways which are very much like ancient ruins she had seen in an Italian film.

Whenever she finds this place, she sits on the carved stone bench there and listens to the ocean. Or she examines the archways and the quality of the earth, and thinks up flowers she could plant. At other times, to her surprise, it does not diminish her enjoyment of the garden to know that it does not exist. She enjoys the sound of the ocean all the same. She plans the rose bushes and clematis and hydrangea vines all the same. She clips out articles about plants that thrive in salt air.

If asked to explain what most attracts her to this place, she would say without hesitation: the uninterrupted silence. The absence of Roger, whose incessant claims on her are like rampant weeds overwhelming her seedling thoughts, which, as of yet, have scarcely taken root. But she nurses a hope that here she would some day work out Annika's Philosophy of Life.

In this silence a subtle hope permeates her mind as perfume permeates skin. Her every movement seems like a part of a larger, as of yet unknown choreography.

One day, as she approaches this garden, through the archway, against the backdrop of the ocean, she sees a table all set as if waiting for people to arrive. Hesitantly she sits down at one end of the table and looks around her. She waits for a long time, fingering the edges of the fine porcelain plates and bowls and cups. She has never even imagined anything so beautiful. The edges are deep blue with gold woven through in intricate patterns, which to Annika suggest richness beyond even imagination . The longer she waits, the more aware she becomes that she is inside a dream. The more she wishes she could go far away in search of real places where such atmosphere of peace and beauty exist.

Having known such an unusual set of dishes, she is determined that from now on, she would acquire things only of the finest quality. Or she would acquire nothing at all. So, Annika makes do with her chipped and fading dinnerware. She even refuses an offer of a gift from her mother-in-law of a twelve-serving set of English stoneware. This at the cost of being considered impractical and difficult.

She had forgotten her imaginary dishes until this morning, when the letter arrived. Now the memory of them glows pleasantly, distracting her from her growing nervousness of meeting Cleopatra.

She wonders how to phrase the one question she's permitted to ask, according to the rules of the contest. Not a wish, the letter is careful to point out. A question.

The building is squat and gray, the length of a block. And the hallways likewise are disappointing. She moves along the corridor cautiously, afraid to miss some clue as to where she's to turn next. But she's soon reassured. Outside one of the doors stands a statue as she had seen in the museum. Tutankhamen, she supposes. It has a black goatee strapped to its chin. Its black eyes stare past her. The beautiful gold and blue are present in its striped headdress.

As she approaches it, the door opens a crack.

Come in for heaven's sake, says a child-like voice from inside.

Entering the room is like entering the interior of a sea shell. Pink, lavender, gold, aqua shades glow all around her. Annika's eyes wander along the brocade drapes and gilt furniture until they reach the woman propped against a mound of satin pillows on a four-poster bed. The woman is smaller than she'd expected, but certainly as beautiful, as self-possessed, utterly in charge of anything or anyone who is within her sphere. Of the servant, for example: the young man in the simple ankle-length tunic on the other side of the room, between two tall windows. The man stands on guard facing Annika, but his eyes are on the face of Cleopatra.

Annika stands at the doorway holding her breath, waiting to be commanded.

Cleo, in a turquoise satin negligée with a décolletage just skirting the nipples of her heavy breasts, is absorbed in a book. Without looking up, she motions with one hand for Annika to be seated. A straight-backed chair stands against the wall by the door where she has entered, and Annika sits down on it. It offers no comfort, instead forcing her to sit stiffly, watchful that she won't slide off the seat which tilts slightly forward.

She studies Cleopatra whose eyes fly across the pages of her book, seemingly oblivious to her presence. One knee is raised and it dances gleefully from side to side as she reads. Annika notices without surprise how much she looks like Elizabeth Taylor. So, is this a hoax? Or is it a piece of luck? From what she's read, Cleopatra might be too immature to answer her one question. Elizabeth Taylor might be more experienced, especially concerning matters in the present century.

Her question, then. How should she phrase it? Was it better to begin with how? or when?

In a panic she realizes she has still not formed her thoughts. She's no longer even sure that she's unhappy with Roger. Perhaps she is happy. Who could tell? Perhaps this is as happy as it gets, as happy as is permitted.

Perhaps that is the question: am I happy? No, no, better to stay in the area of Cleopatra's expertise. Say she is not happy. Say she had a dream that she could be happier, did that count? Suppose she knows the answer to that, what is the next question?

Roger's face comes to her in a flash. Handsome. Pouting. Her third child. Needing more time and comforting than her other two combined. Her head is swimming, her eye twitching. Oh Roger! she thinks. If only you'd grow up! Should she wait? Maybe that is the question.

Immediately Roger's mother appears behind him and looks at her accusingly. Maybe the problem is not Roger. If only her mother-in-law...

Cleopatra reads on, undisturbed. The valet is beginning to lean in her direction, gazing at her adoringly.

How does she do it? Annika wonders. All those husbands. All those lovers. How she envies her. Not for her husbands, but for the knowing. Knowing what she wants. Clarity. The wisdom to recognize what is not working; the courage to leave it behind.

Is that the true prerogative of Woman? This woman, this Cleopatra, or Elizabeth-- she feels hopelessly Un-Womanly, muddled, in comparison. She needs silence to think this through. There is never enough.

Suddenly the room fills with gay laughter. Cleopatra slaps her thigh in delight and turns to Annika.

Listen to this, she says. Can you believe this! It says here you can kill a man by making him swallow his own tongue. This is so fabulous! Absolutely unbelievable! Her words bounce like happy music. Look, here's a diagram. It's all in the way you kiss him.

She holds up the worn leather-bound book to Annika who holds tight to the edge of her seat. She's not sure of the etiquette in this room. Does she have permission to speak? Not yet, she figures.

Cleo flips back and forth between two pages, muttering to herself.

Abruptly she yanks at the tasseled cord just behind her head. The door beside the servant opens and another servant enters the room. He's naked to the waist, a turquoise and gold fabric wrapped around his slim hips. Annika gasps silently, thinking how much this man's torso resembles Roger's. Smooth and tawny, subtly segmented.

Cleo waves her hand vaguely to her left and the servant promptly crosses the floor and draws open the heavy drapes. Behind is a glass door that opens to a patio. Annika gasps for the second time. There on the patio a table is set, just as in her own private garden, with the blue and gold plates and bowls and cups. The vast white atmosphere of her dreams hovers like a dome over the table. All at once she is aware of how uncomfortable she is. She longs to go outside and breathe in the fresh air, but she dares not cross the room.

The servant presents himself by Cleo's side and waits stiffly for her next command. An impish grin spreads across Cleo's face. It changes into a seductive smile, her lips parted, her eyes half-closed. Her index finger curls and she guides the servant towards her as if by an invisible thread.

Standing by her bed, he points incredulously to his own chest and she nods and moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue.

Slowly he moves towards the mound of pillows and Cleo's dark head which is nestled there. She settles further down into the pillows, still beckoning, her thumb now tucked under her chin. He bends over her stiffly, as if bracing himself for being the butt of a majestic joke.

She positions his head where she wants it and they engage in a long wet embrace. Cleo clasps his body closer to her breasts, the servant resisting less and less, gradually his body yielding, his hand hovering over one breast as if over a hotplate. His hand moves lightly down the satin of her gown.

Just as it reaches her thigh, his head jerks back and he lets out a violent sound like an animal being slaughtered. He falls to his knees, stands up, falls back on his knees, away from the bed, clutching at his throat. His face turns red, then purple.

Annika gets up from her chair, sits down again, gets up again, not knowing what to do.

The man falls to the floor with a thud and lies there, motionless.

I know CPR, Annika says helpfully, but finds she cannot move. She looks expectantly to the other servant, but he seems preoccupied, blinking up at the ceiling. He looks wounded, like he's about to cry.

Cleopatra leans over the bed, looks closely at the toppled man's face. She takes an oval mirror from under her pillows and holds it under the man's nose.

Hmm, she says to herself with an air of accomplishment. I think it works. It really works.

She picks up her book and soon becomes absorbed again, seeming to forget the servant and Annika.

The body, thinks Annika. There is a body. Why isn't she worried?

Annika gets on her hands and knees and crawls over to where she can see the fallen man. He's on his side, almost in the fetal position, his head thrown back, hands clutching at his throat. His sandaled feet are neatly together. Except for the upturned eyes, he looks almost tidy, ready to be lifted gently and put to bed. Just slip off his sandals. Jesus sandals like the ones Roger sometimes wears.

Annika is overcome by horror and pity. She looks at Cleo's face and is struck by its utter peacefulness. The body! she wants to scream.

How can you not worry about the body? she asks, dumbfounded.

Cleo looks up briefly and smiles and says sweetly, get over it. Or perhaps she said go try it. Annika couldn't be sure.

But she knows she's been dismissed.

It isn't until she's at the bus-stop that Annika remembers she hadn't formulated her question, then realized she had.

* * * * *

Roger has invited fourteen guests from his department for dinner. It's a thoughtless thing to do, says Annika. We don't even have the dishes to serve from.

So borrow them. Rent them.

That's not the point, says Annika. The point is she's been allowing Roger to make too many decisions. Nothing ever seems a big enough deal to argue over and it's simpler to do things his way. But for once, she wants to do something that reflects her own style. Especially if he insists on surprising her like this. If he wants to invite so many strange people to their home, she wants, yes, willfully, to put her stamp on the evening.

Ask my mother, offers Roger.

I hate her dishes, says Annika. They're heavy and they're ugly.

What's the big deal? You can eat off them.

That night Annika dreams that it's the day of the party. A big carton arrives at her doorstep and inside are the beautiful blue and gold dishes.

A blue so intense it seems to leap about like flames.

For days Annika feels happy, as if she were in close proximity to her precious silence. Even as she arranges flowers, helps her son and daughter with their drawings and arithmetic, cooks, cleans, shops, her precious space is nearby. The ocean waves roll in rhythmically.

The real day of the party arrives. Roger has stopped questioning Annika about dishes. She seems to have it under control. You'll see, she says with a mysterious smile.

All day she cooks happily, while Roger vacuums and cleans the toilet bowls and tub. She sets everything on the table except the dishes.

Don't worry, says Annika, sensing his anxiety. It's going to be perfect. Every half hour or so she kneels on the couch by the window and looks out to see if the package has arrived.

Six o'clock comes and she herself grows worried. The cooking done, she rests on the couch, gazing out the window expectantly. Any minute now, she is sure, it will come. It's a clear blue summer day, not a cloud, or anything resembling a package, in the sky. At seven o'clock she sits there again. The sky is deeper, more turquoise, coral tones gathering above the tree line. How could she have been so stupid, she wonders, as to expect anything to arrive from nowhere?

Sadly she goes upstairs, fixes her hair, puts on a dress, checks on the children in their rooms. She sits on the edge of her bed in the dim light. In half an hour the first guests would arrive. Roger would be furious, of course. Slowly, defeated, she goes down the stairs.

Passing the front window, from the corner of her eye, she sees the large carton on the front porch. Jubilantly she calls to Roger and together they carry in the heavy box.

She rips off the tape and opens the flaps. Her heart sinks. Inside are her mother-in-law's stone dishes, heavy and ugly. Neither of them says a word as they unpack them and set them on the table. Annika's cheeks burn in humiliation.

Just be yourself, says Roger. They'll love you. He speaks to her more kindly than usual.

Annika pulls herself through the party. She makes many visits to the children's' rooms and talks to them about their friends, their teachers, about the war they had seen on television, about the roses and how high they might climb someday. Each time she kisses them good-night and squeezes their small hands as if testing their readiness.

After the last guest has left, she and Roger sit outside on the front steps for a long time without saying a word.

It's nice when it's quiet, isn't it? she says. His long toes are tapping inside his sandals, up and down. She holds her breath, sensing the turbulence.

So where do we go from here, he says without looking at her.

I don't know, she says.

You don't have to...to...What I mean, honey, he says, and he turns to look her in the eyes, I'm going to survive. It's the way he says it that chills her insides. Like it's a threat. But there is worry in his eyes.

It's not so easy, you know, he continues. If you leave it means letting go of my hand. It's a big world out there. A lonely world.

Annika says nothing.

I'm starting to let go of your hand now. Can you feel the grip loosening?

Annika feels nothing, wonders if this means there is something deeply wrong with her. She is numb. Although something deep inside her is simmering, warning her not to lose momentum this time.

His hand loosens more until their palms just touch, then slides away so only their finger-tips touch. Can you feel it?

It occurs to her that he has been practising this. He has already tested it out in his own mind. She wonders if he can do it, let go.

He grabs her hand and laughs. It's a strained laugh mixed with terror.

See, he says. It's not so easy.

She imagines herself at the edge of the highway. It's different now. Wider. Growing darker. The archway to the garden is not visible yet. She might not reach it by nightfall. The two small hands feel warm in hers.