The Trans-Siberian Railway
Nov. 9th, 2003 08:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraMister Kim came to visit the sign yesterday. Trailing an entourage – funny, I hadn’t really thought of Mister Kim as the type to have an entourage but there they were, an impeccably dressed dark-haired woman about my age in a collar with a fur coat and slinky black books, a guy who bore a spooky resemblance to Richard Brautigan, a few others.
Despite the rain, business was very brisk. Mister Kim stood on the threshold for several moments, staring at me mournfully. I don’t think he expected me to recognize him.
“My artist!” I said. We grasped hands, went out together to survey the artwork.
“Wonderful,” said the Richard Brautigan lookalike. “The detail. Look at the chili peppers on the boxer shorts.”
“Wow,” I said. “You know I hadn’t noticed this before but you actually painted in the fillings in the old lady’s teeth.”
Mister Kim fretted over some guano on the old lady’s painted purple dress. “You need to wash. With mild soap and water.”
“Oh, I do,” I said. “This sign is my favorite thing on the planet.”
Then Mister Kim began fretting over me. “Things on yr sweater –“
“Dog hair?” I said. “God, I’m such a slob –“
“Paint on yr sweater –“
“Paint! Surely not. Black cashmere and paint! Two things that don’t belong together – “
I was babbling. I was nervous. I wanted to ask him: how’s John?
A few yards away, Ernesto was braving the elements with his guitar and Pipes of Pan.
“So beautiful,” said the be-booted lady. “So soulful.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask Ernesto if he’d rather be a hammer than a nail. I dare you.”
They gawked at me.
Mister Kim followed me back inside the store. He had a peculiar expression on his face when he looked at me, Caesar first realizing Hey! That Gaul is pretty neat. Maybe I should plan an invasion…
“You remind me of a friend,” he said, advancing closer. “Same face. Your eyes. My friend, Russian – “ And then he started to talk very fast, his accent so thick and impenetrable that I couldn’t understand a word of it so I just stood there smiling and nodding along with the rhythm of his words. It hit me then as it sometimes does – this human being has a complex history and an inner life, probably one that’s a lot more interesting than my own. Maybe this Russian was instrumental in extricating him from North Korea. Possibly they spent a doomed, tragic, romantic week on the Trans-Siberian railway, riding together in the same car that ran over Anna Karenina.
Had a pleasant domestic evening at home. Cooked pork chops with a complicated lavender ginger sauce that was wasted on the kids, baked a dozen mini-chocolate bundt cakes for Marybeth’s soireé this evening. Nathan came over, Max’s Eddie Haskell. They hung out in the living room, playing Madden 2003. Robin kept trying to join in: “Why can’t I be a teenager?”
Retired to my bed around nine to read sleazy tabloids. Michael Jackson near death, Anna Nicole Smith drops eighty pounds. Annie called: “So, how’s the crush?”
“I’m a complete blithering idiot,” I said. “I’m totally besotted. I keep bumping into furniture.”
“Well, can’t you conscript Ben to, uh, perform manly duties in proxy?”
“No, no, no,” I said. “The smell is all wrong.”
“I see,” said Annie. “Well, you know, whenever I’m feeling particularly neurotic, I think about Liza Minelli. And I realize: damn, maybe I’m not so crazy after all. I pass this wisdom on to you.”
Despite the rain, business was very brisk. Mister Kim stood on the threshold for several moments, staring at me mournfully. I don’t think he expected me to recognize him.
“My artist!” I said. We grasped hands, went out together to survey the artwork.
“Wonderful,” said the Richard Brautigan lookalike. “The detail. Look at the chili peppers on the boxer shorts.”
“Wow,” I said. “You know I hadn’t noticed this before but you actually painted in the fillings in the old lady’s teeth.”
Mister Kim fretted over some guano on the old lady’s painted purple dress. “You need to wash. With mild soap and water.”
“Oh, I do,” I said. “This sign is my favorite thing on the planet.”
Then Mister Kim began fretting over me. “Things on yr sweater –“
“Dog hair?” I said. “God, I’m such a slob –“
“Paint on yr sweater –“
“Paint! Surely not. Black cashmere and paint! Two things that don’t belong together – “
I was babbling. I was nervous. I wanted to ask him: how’s John?
A few yards away, Ernesto was braving the elements with his guitar and Pipes of Pan.
“So beautiful,” said the be-booted lady. “So soulful.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask Ernesto if he’d rather be a hammer than a nail. I dare you.”
They gawked at me.
Mister Kim followed me back inside the store. He had a peculiar expression on his face when he looked at me, Caesar first realizing Hey! That Gaul is pretty neat. Maybe I should plan an invasion…
“You remind me of a friend,” he said, advancing closer. “Same face. Your eyes. My friend, Russian – “ And then he started to talk very fast, his accent so thick and impenetrable that I couldn’t understand a word of it so I just stood there smiling and nodding along with the rhythm of his words. It hit me then as it sometimes does – this human being has a complex history and an inner life, probably one that’s a lot more interesting than my own. Maybe this Russian was instrumental in extricating him from North Korea. Possibly they spent a doomed, tragic, romantic week on the Trans-Siberian railway, riding together in the same car that ran over Anna Karenina.
Had a pleasant domestic evening at home. Cooked pork chops with a complicated lavender ginger sauce that was wasted on the kids, baked a dozen mini-chocolate bundt cakes for Marybeth’s soireé this evening. Nathan came over, Max’s Eddie Haskell. They hung out in the living room, playing Madden 2003. Robin kept trying to join in: “Why can’t I be a teenager?”
Retired to my bed around nine to read sleazy tabloids. Michael Jackson near death, Anna Nicole Smith drops eighty pounds. Annie called: “So, how’s the crush?”
“I’m a complete blithering idiot,” I said. “I’m totally besotted. I keep bumping into furniture.”
“Well, can’t you conscript Ben to, uh, perform manly duties in proxy?”
“No, no, no,” I said. “The smell is all wrong.”
“I see,” said Annie. “Well, you know, whenever I’m feeling particularly neurotic, I think about Liza Minelli. And I realize: damn, maybe I’m not so crazy after all. I pass this wisdom on to you.”
