The Tiger's Wife

Recently, I finished a book, "The Tiger's Wife" by Tea Obreht, that absorbed me, really captivated me. I told a coworker the day after I finished that I read a great book about the Yugoslav Wars in the Balkans. Later I realized that's not really true. It's a story about a woman and her grandfather. Their lives just happen to be punctuated by the war--one I embarrassing admit I really didn't know anything about. It happened while I was growing up in the '90s, unaware. Very.

While reading "The Tiger's Wife" I couldn't help but thinking of a basket, seamless and beautiful in its simplicity. The story is so flawlessly woven. I read another book, "Evel Knievel Days," during which a ghost pops up and speaks grossly exaggerated Old Western. It was jarring--an annoying jolt of mixed genres. 

The name "The Tiger's Wife" alone implies something mythical, perhaps with a touch of fantasy. The main character, Natalia, travels to a town where a family is digging up a vineyard in search of a hastily buried cousin whose spirit, they believe, is making them all sick. Natalia's grandfather's life is punctuated by meetings with The Deathless Man. The tales in the book, especially that of the tiger and his wife, are so richly crafted I found myself believing them. They way I explained these examples is much too trite. You'll just have to read it.

I particularly loved a scene when the grandfather rouses Natalia in the middle of the night. He silently rushes her out of the house. He is walking with long strides down the streets, and she notices that there is no sign of life anywhere. She get the feeling they are alone in the world, such is the stillness, the absence of signs of others--eerie in a city. He doesn't tell her what they are going to see. And then she sees it, an elephant.

"My grandfather and I stopped at the bus station, and the elephant passed, slow, graceful, enchanted by the food in the young man's hand. The moon threw a tangle of light into the long, soft hairs sticking up out of his trunk and under his chin. The mouth was open, and the tongue lay in it like a wet arm.

'No one will ever believe this," I said.

My grandfather said: 'What?'

'None of my friends will ever believe it.'

My grandfather looked at me like he'd never seen me before, like he couldn't believe I was his. Even in our estrangement, he had never quite looked at me that way, and afterward he never did again.

'You must be joking,' he said. 'Look around think for a moment. It's the middle of the night, not a soul anywhere. In this city, at this time. Not a dog in the gutter. Empty. Except for this elephant--and  you're going to tell you idiot friends about it? Why? Do you think they'll understand it? Do you think it will matter to them?'"

Then he tells her that this is one of those moments. The moments you keep to yourself because it is special. You keep it to yourself because words can't convey it properly and trying to would take away some of its magic.

Sunset

I saw a beautiful sunset this evening. It wasn't your average beauty. I stared at it for a long time because it was so complex. The longer I looked, the more colors I saw. I felt like an artist. I actually saw green in the sunset. It was faded in nicely between light blue and rust. (I hoped the rust color was't pollution, smoldering in the last glow of the day's light.) 

There was a swath of clouds that looked sponge painted gravel. Another section was a blur of purple and pink, the colors mixing in swirls and wide strokes. Now I think of finger painting, but at the time my mind was more digital--thinking the blur tool in Photoshop couldn't have done a better job. 

Words can't recreate the sunset, but you know what? Neither could a camera. Or a painting for that matter. At first, I wished I had some way to capture it, to save it for another time. 

Instead, I just enjoyed the sunset as it was...before it was gone.

Hunger

Yesterday, I took a walk down to the reflecting pool on the National Mall. It's finally reopened after 2 years of renovation, now returned to its full site-of-the-Forrest-and-Jennie-reunion glory.

On the walk back home, I became almost frantically hungry, so I stopped for a quick bite at a place downtown dubbed the "Indian Chipotle." I sat down in front of my chickpea, lamb, and veggie bowl in a window alcove—the better to people-watch those on the sidewalk while listening to the radio on my iPod.

About halfway through my meal, someone from behind started speaking to me. I turned around to a young homeless man. He said something like, "Excuse me, I have to tell you something." I paused, then looked away. He asked if he could sit down. I turned back with what I know was an ugly,ugly expression on my face and said, "I'm just trying to eat my lunch." In other words, Leave me alone. I don't want to deal with this. It could be a scam. You might steal from me. And even: I'm a little afraid of you.

When I turned away again, he wandered over to the food counter. I looked down at my half-eaten dish. I was actually full already, seems like all restaurants give glutton portions these days. I thought about catching him on the way out and offering the rest of my food; I really hadn't touched that part. I resolved to do it, but then he walked out the door. And the opportunity slipped by. Or I let it.

I looked down at my food.

I ate it all. My stomach hurt for the rest of the day.