Anca

I never understood why Anca chose to live in Paris, out of the whole world. There are two types of immigrants: those who escape where they came from and those who escape themselves. I can’t, for the life of me, decide who’s more deserving of our sympathies. Those who had to leave must grapple with the longing for their home. Those who had to escape themselves end up realising that we can’t escape who we are; wherever we go, there we are. Anca left Pittsburgh and moved to Paris to escape herself. Or maybe be closer to home.

You couldn’t miss Anca, if not for her grand presence, then for her generous curves. There was not a single angle to Anca’s physique. Tall, plump, warm undertone skin with flowing black hair… Did I mention plump? She was undoubtedly attractive, albeit being gracious plenty. If her good looks and voluptuousness were not enough, there was her sheer presence, which tended towards centre stage, shining star and right below the spotlight. Generally, she attracted attention elegantly but didn’t mind getting her hands dirty if elegant didn’t get the job done.

In her pursuit of attention, she touched and flirted; she coerced and shocked; she charmed and ignored; she bargained and intimidated. An insatiable need to be seen by anyone and everyone. A need that lies at the very bottom of the hierarchy. A need that is almost essential to her existence and survival. A need that made her Machiavellian approach justifiable. I would’ve thought being an only child meant she received all the attention in the world, but life is rarely that straightforward. 

I met Anca in a house party in Paris. And only in Paris can you find 18 people crammed into a studio apartment barely large enough for one person to live. Only in a Paris studio apartment, where the sofa in the morning is a bed at night, would the bathroom have a bathtub. This may sound nonsensical, but in Paris, it makes a lot of sense. Because only in Paris would this tub serve as a table during the day, thanks to a flat sheet of wood and a tiny chair. The very same tub becomes a guest bed at night, thanks to a duvet and a blanket, usually stuffed in the couch as cushions. 

It wasn’t Anca’s apartment, nor was it her party, but it might as well have been. The moment I entered she made sure I had a drink, that I was introduced to everyone and that she knew everything and anything about me. I assumed she was related to the person who invited me. I barely knew him, anyway. She wasn’t. I tried to shame her out of her questioning. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to know my waist size too?” Egyptian humour rarely translates well into English! I knew that, and I still do, but I translate the quips anyway, just for the fun of it.

My comment was not subtle enough, or maybe it was too subtle. It didn’t even slow her down. If anything, I unleashed upon myself the gates of hell. Anca was not a person to be dared because she would take it with an open bosom. The truth is, I enjoyed the attention, and I envied her shameless expectation of being centre stage. The truth is, I was every bit as attention-seeking as she was, but I was nowhere as good. I started playing along to see how far she was willing to go. I wanted to observe her social athletics in action. Compared to her Olympic-level skills, I played in the neighbor’s backyard. 

Anca and I became friends. A unilateral decision that she took on my behalf and to which I didn’t protest, or rather welcomed with an open heart. Because under Anca’s bravado, she was a warm, kind, and generous person with an abundance of goodness that matched her sheer Anca-ness. Like many big personalities, it was layers of audacity, ferocity, and bravado carefully layered to protect an innocent little girl. A girl that I had no means to see but instinctively knew was there. I patiently waited for Matryoshka to reveal herself - the little doll nested inside a larger one and another one and another one, leaving only the big doll as the first thing the eye sees.

I don’t recall my Dad as a child back when we lived in Warsaw. It was only me and my Mom. He used his position as a government official to escape to Germany. Life was hard for us, even though we were the lucky ones. I was told we were more fortunate than the others. I saw it, yet I can tell you it didn’t feel that way. It only got harder when he failed to return back and left us all alone. We were social pariahs, by the family and system alike, by those who believed and those who resented the system. Everyone shunned us as if the hardship of our reality was not enough punishment.

My father made it to America and left us behind. My Mom wouldn’t talk about where my father was or about America. She feared I would talk at school or in front of our neighbours. We spent a lot of time with my grandfather; my grandmother was already dead by then. He was firm, strict and unnecessarily harsh. He and Mom fought, but I liked going to his place. The neighbours in his apartment building had a daughter my age that I played with. I would take my doll Dad bought me from Germany during one of his travels. She was so pretty with blonde hair and a beautiful dress. When I laid her down, her eyes would close. 

The girl recounting the story was a slightly smaller version of Anca that I knew. I smiled at the pride in her voice and waited for the Matryoshka to unravel. My doll was the most beautiful doll. Every girl wanted to play with my doll, and like an idiot, I used to let them. Until one day, a gypsy girl came to play with us. I knew better not to interact with a gypsy, but my stupid friend seemed to know her. Those gypsies, they are the worst! I wanted to enquire about those terrible gypsies but wouldn’t dare interrupt the flow. The little bitch took off with my doll and ran away. I ran behind her to save my doll, but the little rascal was faster than the wind. It didn’t help that Mom always put me in a dress and little shoes! I couldn’t compete with the barefooted girl.

I cried for weeks on end. It was my only toy and my only connection to my father. Every time I was caught crying, I was reminded that it was my fault. It was me who let others play with my doll. It was me who played with a gypsy. It was me who didn’t catch the girl and rescue Heidi. Anca momentarily balked at letting go of her doll’s name but quickly shimmied her shoulders to brush off that little slip of the tongue to carry on. I wondered why I shouldn’t have learnt the doll’s name! As if the doll's name was the part that made her story personal, and by keeping it to herself a part of her truth remained hidden. I was too engrossed to ask and interrupt her story, and she was too engrossed to stop at that point.

After the revolution, life got only harder, but Dad was able to send for us to join him. We were to move to Pittsburgh, and I was the happiest girl in Warsaw. Mom left her job and her lover, and we left for America. Grandpa was angry we were leaving. It was surprising; it wasn’t like he cared all that much for our presence. He asked Mom to stay, but she knew it would get far worse before it got better. He was alone, and all he had was Mom, but that didn’t make him all that nice to her or to me, for that matter. He was a miserable man, and he wanted us to rot with him in his misery. I thought life would finally get better, but I was wrong.

In America, I realised that I didn’t know my father. He was a stranger to me and, to an extent, to my mother. It was tense and uncomfortable, and Dad was barely at home. We felt isolated, not having friends and family or even speaking the language fluently. The kids at school made fun of my accent, how I dressed, and the food I brought to school. I was smarter than them in science, math, and geography and yet I was the one made fun of. If Mom caught me crying, it was my fault for not paying attention. It was my fault for not working harder on my accent. It was my fault for being weak and vulnerable. I didn’t complain; I knew better than to complain, but I couldn’t even be sad. If I was crying by my father, I was unappreciative of his sacrifice. 

The Matryoshka kept unravelling, and another miniature doll appeared under the fold of the previous one. The story was sad, but the voice was angry. I could see why she was angry. And not long after we arrived, Dad received a letter from back home. I was from my grandfather. The bastard sent a letter to his son-in-law telling him about Mom’s affair. Can you believe a man to be that despicable? In order to punish her, he called his own daughter a whore. My father wasn’t a saint, but he enjoyed playing one. From the first awkward moment we arrived in America, he and Mom knew that whatever they had together had been killed by time and circumstance. He needed a pretext to leave us yet once more, and Grandpa gave it to him on a silver platter. 

Anca stopped. She was getting more animated. She needed to recompose herself. I sensed I was so close to the tiniest doll in the Matryoshka. I sensed that all she had recounted until that point would diminish in the face of what was to come. I had a thousand questions, but I didn’t dare to speak. I felt her agony. I was overcome with empathy for the little girl and her pain. I wanted to hug her, but I knew I needed to wait just a bit more. I knew what she needed from me was to celebrate her strength rather than caress her pain. How the world saw Anca would be defended at all and any cost.

They agreed on divorce. Not even a few months had passed since our arrival, and it was over before it even started. And then the bastard had my mother sign divorce documents where she agreed to an alimony of $100 a month. She thought it was a lot of money. She didn’t know what she was signing on to. As soon as he walked out on us, she realised how royally he screwed us. He went to his American wife and left us to rot once more. I hate the bastard, and if I ever get the chance, I shall make him pay for what he did to me. There and then I understood why Anca was who she was. There is no greater pain than being betrayed by the man who was supposed to protect her.