Olga Dies Dreaming(7)
“Born and raised.”
On the rare occasions that Olga met a fellow native, she was always surprised by how relaxed it made her feel. Like she could slip into a dying tongue and talk about the old country.
“So, listen, don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but from one Brooklynite to another, I’ve got to ask you something.”
He laughed. “Shoot. But I’m already gonna take this the wrong way because nobody starts with that if they’re going to say something positive.”
She smiled. “So, this neighborhood is hot right now. Luxury properties. New money coming in. The Realtors I know are all kind of slick and polished.…”
“And you want to know how I get away with looking like a crazy community college professor?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s what I was getting at.”
He took his backpack off, sidled up to the bar, and leaned in towards her.
“Well, I’m really talented, I’m very smart, I’ve got some swag, and frankly, I’m well connected. I went to the best schools—literally—Packer, Bennington, the works.”
“That’s interesting.”
“You’re wondering why I’m just a Realtor?”
Olga was in fact wondering exactly that, but before she spoke it aloud, she asked herself, Well, why the fuck are you a wedding planner, Olga? and decided to shut her mouth.
“No,” she lied.
“My mother died and I never got over it and I got my real estate license to deal with her house and then one thing led to another and the next thing you know I’m doing this and I’m living in her house and I kind of became a hoarder.”
“Excuse me?” Olga was sure that she had missed something.
“Yes, I have a lot of stuff. Mainly furniture.”
“But you mean that metaphorically. Not like the TV show.”
“Um, no. I mean exactly like the TV show. Technically, since I don’t keep newspapers or food, I might not meet the clinical definition, but trust me, it’s not normal. Like I said, my thing is really furniture. And electronics. And knickknacks. I have a Hummel room.”
Olga laughed and the stranger laughed, and Olga forgot for a second that she wanted to be alone.
The stranger, who’d now sat down on the stool next to her, offered his hand.
“I’m Matteo.”
“Olga.”
Close up, Olga could see that Matteo was quite handsome underneath his scruffy semi-beard. He had a spattering of freckles and the kind of light brown eyes that Olga used to call Coca-Cola colored when she was a kid. His short curly hair was going more salt than pepper, but she could tell that he was five, maybe six years older than her, at the max. His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed muscular forearms covered in hair that was quite sexy.
“So, Olga, let me get you another drink while you tell me what you were trying to clear your head about?”
As they downed two more glasses of wine, Olga told Matteo all about the funeral and Jan’s suicide and, of course, his double life.
“I suppose though,” Matteo offered, “most of us in New York live double lives, with a secret of some sort living behind closed doors.”
“Really? What’s your secret?”
“I already told you. I’m a hoarder.”
She giggled.
“So, what’s your secret?” Matteo asked.
“I’m a terrible person.”
* * *
OUTSIDE NOIR THEY stood kissing under a streetlight for an hour, their clothes growing damp from the humid summer night. His hands on the small of her back, on the nape of her neck. Olga could feel Matteo hard on her thigh through his khakis. It excited her, kissing on a corner. Something she was happy to discover she hadn’t outgrown. The kisses tasted like memories and wine and salt and she lost herself in them.
“Come to my place?” she whispered in his ear.
He fucked with his socks on, yet it surprised Olga how little she cared.
NOVEMBER 1990
Nov. 11, 1990
Querida Olga,
I write to you on your thirteenth birthday, one I’m sad to miss. There is work in the world that I’ve been called to do, mija, and the time has come for me to do it. I believe, in my heart, that I’ve given you and your brother all the wisdom that I, as a mother, can impart. Because thirteen, Olga, is a magical age. Yes, you leave girlhood behind, but now you get to decide, day by day, what kind of woman you want to become. The big picture of the world becomes clearer. You begin to learn more for yourself than any parent or teacher could possibly tell you.
I know it was that way for me; nobody could tell me about nothing. Not my mother, not my brothers, certainly nobody at school. In those days, our whole universe was just a few blocks wide. We walked to and from school; Mami walked to work at the factory. Even so, by thirteen it was clear to me that our people—Black and Brown people—were treated worse by just about everybody. In class, the teachers favored the white kids. At home, as the whites left the neighborhood and the Puerto Ricans came, suddenly there were less cops in the streets, less garbage trucks cleaning up. I didn’t need anybody to point this out to me, I saw these things for myself and knew it wasn’t right.
For you, I expect this will be doubly true. When you were born, your Papi noticed your eyes, how they seemed to take in everything. They say babies can’t see much, but I thought he was right. You looked wise. And unlike when I was growing up, when girls like me and Lola were put in dresses and told to be polite while we sat like dolls in a corner, you’ve always been able to run wild and free. Where we grew up having to use our “inside voice,” to play our music low, you and Prieto grew up dancing and singing loud. Stomping up and down the stairs of a house your family owned, not getting policed by a landlord who wants your money but not the smells of your food or the sounds of your language.