X - Chapter Thirteen "The Thirteen Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirteen Percent Solution"

Chapter Thirteen 

      Questions, questions, Tereza couldn’t help asking herself questions. Why, she asked, was she taking an Uber across Brooklyn to dine with a man she had just met? Sure, when she met him at the Ramen bar with her roommates, she saw him as tall and handsome, and with deep, hazel eyes. But why, now, she asked herself, would she dine at his home? And, as she looked out the car’s window at the green lawns of Prospect Park, with the families packing up their picnic baskets in the fading evening light, the questions kept coming. But, he was so easy to talk with, actually listening to her, and when he spoke in that deep, personal voice. And, as the car entered Park Slope with its wide, tree-lined streets, with their tall brownstones with their intricately carved facades, Tereza asked herself why she felt so attracted to Eric Miller? But, after all, Tereza asked, how could she be attracted to a black man? 

      Eric Miller was waiting in front of a four-story brownstone, and Tereza recognized him immediately. He stood on the stone path waving to her with a certain confident stance.  

      “No question, this is it, mam,” the Uber driver announced. “I see you got a greeting party.” 

      Eric approached the car and opened its door. As he helped Tereza out of the car, she wondered if her skirt wasn’t just a bit too short. She smiled at him, and noticed she liked the feeling of his hands on her arms. She thanked the driver, who departed immediately. 

      “Welcome, welcome,” Eric said.  “Welcome to our neighborhood, our hood.” He shook her hand and smiled broadly. 

      Tereza couldn’t understand the emotion. It was like a touch of warmth that rose to her spine. “It’s a pleasure to be here. Thank you for inviting me.” 

      “Shall we?” Eric led the way, up the path, through the front door and up a narrow and dimly lit staircase. On the second floor, the apartment’s front door was open, and brightness beamed out. 

      The living room was large, with several oil paintings on the walls, a large red rug covering the center of the floor, a sofa and two upholstered chairs, and in a straight-backed wooden chair, was an elderly man. He was thin and had a full head of gray hair, and his features were sharper and finer than his son’s. He was clean-shaven except for his thin moustache. 

      After Eric and Tereza entered the room, Eric’s father rose with a bit of difficulty and extended his hand. 

      Eric said, “Tereza, this is my dad. Once I told him about you, he said he had to meet you.” 

      Tereza shook the old man’s hand. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr. Miller. It’ll be my pleasure to dine with two distinguished gentlemen.” 

      Eric let out a light laugh. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. Dad insisted on having a cocktail with you, but he’s sorry. He’s already had his dinner.” 

      After a preliminary exchange, they decided on Glenlivet Scotch. Tereza took a seat on the couch, and after serving the drinks straight in small tumblers, Eric sat beside her.

      Eric raised his glass, and said, “Cheers. Here’s to health and wealth.” They all took polite sips. 

      “Cheers to you,” said the old man. “Thank you for brightening our home. Eric tells me you’re visiting from Albania. It must be strange living in such a different culture.”

      Strange, Tereza thought, after just one sip, and she already felt a bit light-headed. “Sir, actually, I’ve been here a while, and I really like America, your culture, so many things.” 

      “Tereza, I should explain something to you,” Eric began. “For the last few years, on special days, Dad and I, we like just a touch of Scotch. It’s become kind of a tradition, something to brighten our day. You see, my Mom died, my gosh, two years ago already. I was living with my wife and daughter, but unfortunately, we divorced, and it wasn’t a bad divorce, as divorces go, they’re never . . .  .  celebrations. Anyway, Dad and I decided I’d move in temporarily. You know how a lot of folks are, I guess it’s still temporary . . . now almost two years later.” 

      There was a moment of silence, and finally, it was Eric’s father who spoke. “Is New York a lot for you to take in? I don’t know anything about Albania, probably couldn’t even find it on a map. But if I arrived here from another culture, I swear, I think I’d be . . . . kind of overwhelmed, to say the least.”

      Tereza was starting to relax. “Sir, I’m someone that loves people, that is, most people. Yeah, sure, there’s people I can’t stand, and I avoid them, that is when I can. But most people, I really like people, I love to learn from them. And New York, you can’t say there’s a shortage of people here.” 

      Then, it was just a normal, polite question. Tereza knew it would come.

      “So, tell me,” Dad said. “What do you do?”

      She spoke with confidence. “Well, I still haven’t made it big, not yet, anyway, but I’m a model.”

      Dad smiled, and his eyes traced her silhouette from her black, raven hair, her fine face with her red lips, her white blouse that revealed her lightly-bronzed complexion and her black skirt that showed off finely formed knees and calves. 

      “Well, let me tell you,” began Dad, “as far as I’m concerned, you are – very definitely – you’re gonna make it big.”

      Eric watched his father, and his respect and enthusiasm for Tereza. So far, so good, he thought. But he didn’t want to see his Dad as too enthusiastic. “Dad, how’s that Scotch holdin’ out?”

      “My gosh,” Dad said. “Guess I kind of finished it. But Eric, you know one’s my limit. Guess I better let you young folk to your dinner.” Dad rose, shook Tereza’s hand, and took his leave.

      Tereza’s eyes followed him until he closed the door behind himself. “Your Dad’s so nice,” and after a few seconds, she added, “A real gentleman.”

      Eric watched her closely. “Don’t worry, Tereza, he likes to hit the sack kind of early. He gets a lot of sleep, and he needs it.”

      Once alone, Eric poured them one last Scotch, and then their conversation wandered around a bit, until he opened twin doors to the dining room, with dinner already on the table – chilled salmon pasta perfected with a bouquet of herbs, a Caesar salad and Cabernet Sauvignon. Then, as they took their places and began eating, the conversation shifted to the New York sites, cultural opportunities and their favorite singers, until Tereza asked Eric about jazz clubs. 

      Eric said: “People kind of think, wow, he’s a brother, and all brothers love jazz. Well, I’m a brother, and I do love jazz. It’s our music, the music we gave to the world. Maybe you say the same for rap, and maybe that’s true too. But jazz is really my thing. I’m proud of it. And it’s not a question about who owns it. I guess it belongs to everyone who uses it and enjoys it with respect.

      “But my real passion is literature, books,” he continued. ‘The written word is so important. It’s gives pleasure, it helps us grow, and for the writer, it’s what he or she leaves behind. I guess it happened to me when I was a teenager. I read so much, almost always American authors, like Faulker, and Dos Passos and Steinbeck and – one exception – Joyce, and of course Hemingway. I just realized the wisdom, so much there, and I wanted to share it. That’s why I teach high school, high school English. My job puts me in front of kids, and for some of them, I even help them open their minds.”

      Tereza ate with enthusiasm, all the time trying to keep her manners. “This is wonderful, who’s the cook?”

      “Yours truly,” Eric answered. “I love to experiment, and I have the time.”   

      “Eric, you know so much, about culture, and a lot of things I don’t know,” Tereza said. “When I lived in Tirana, it was easy; everyone liked me. But I’m not so sure they liked me for the right reasons. And honestly, I feel ashamed in a way. I never tried to learn about my culture, my Albanian culture. I didn’t even try. I just had my friends, and we enjoyed each other, and we went out and laughed and danced and drank a bit. I wish, I really wish I had tried harder.”

      The time passed fast. Before they realized it, it was already well past midnight.

      “Eric, I don’t know how to tell you, this was such a pleasure,” Tereza said, and then she waited several seconds, and Eric didn’t interrupt her. “I’d better get going. I’ll get an Uber.” 

      In front of the house, when the Uber pulled up. Eric reached to shake Tereza’s hand. But she ignored it, and stepped close to him and enfolded him in her arms. 

      “I hope this is just a beginning,” he said, and Tereza felt his sincerity in the timbre of his voice. 

      “Me, too. Very much,” and she pulled away from him and climbed into the car.