Te Iubesc
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Thrice you’ve texted in the years since you’ve passed, the same curt message:
Sunt mama, pisica de piatră. Vino la Cimitirul Eternitatea pe luna albastră. Te iubesc.
Always during blue moons. Always from random Romanian numbers.
And, quite frankly, ma, I’m a little pissed.
Alive, you had no time for me. Just flew your little Starla off to “un loc mai bun…” As if any place without you was better than being beside you. But dead, well… Now you want me back. Won’t even tell me why (or how you’re doing this!). Not plainly.
But Iași isn’t my home, you saw to that. Neither is this culture you’ve denied me.
I came for you, though. Eventually. Cost me two day’s travel on economy planes and rickety trains. Had both my laptop and cell phone stolen by a gang of scraggly, yet surprisingly adept, youngsters—that one girl’s portrayal of “lost and scared” would have had even Meryl Streep rising to applaud. And now I’ve no way to translate, I’m perpetually confused, more scared than I probably ought to be, and so, so furious. You never taught my tongue how to dance like yours; I am speechless in your language.
And as I wander through this crumbly constellation of tombstones dotting “Cimitirul Eternitatea,” the sun setting ablaze the horizon with all the colors of angst and fury, I’m searching for every cat of stone. Looking for you.
Happy now, ma?
Five…six…seven. Seven cats of stone. I make a mental note.
Which one are you?
The sun now passed, the moon a faint print in the sky, I sit myself upon a rusted bench along a cobble walkway between graves and puzzle over what to expect. You’re a cat (or so you claim). Of stone. Fitting, I suppose. You never were easy to understand. Ever distant. Enigmatic.
Will you come alive with the blue moon? Or is this just more wasted time?
A few plots away an older woman tends to the cradle grave of a loved one. O bătrână. Frumoasă. Swaddled in a black shawl and a red headscarf, she lights candles, places them into gilded lanterns hooked on either side of the white marble tombstone. Their small flames illuminate the mass of rose bush spilling out from the grave where it had been planted. Nurtured and grown. Here. She reaches for a white rose, bloomed wide, caresses its petals. Offers care and warmth. Acknowledgment. She turns, meets my eyes. Smiles.
I nod, smile back.
The blue moon (luna albastră) crowns the distant buildings now, accentuating their brash and distinct brutalist-styling. I remember the few tales you’ve shared. Of communism and corruption. Of hardship. How, even after the revolution, life wasn’t easy. You did what you thought was best. Gifted me an opportunity at a life you never dared dream for yourself. And I don’t blame you. But that doesn’t mean the missing hurts any less.
The older woman rises from her tending beside the grave and approaches, small bags clutched and crinkling in hand. She nears, says something I don’t understand. My throat drys, tenses. Uncertain of what constitutes proper protocol in this situation, all I can think to do is shrug, say, “Uh…”
“Zi bogdaproste.” She makes light of my ignorance with a soft chuckle, waves her hand in encouragement as she repeats, “Zi bogdaproste, dragă.”
“Bo–bogdaproste.” The word is clumsy on my tongue, but her brown eyes twinkle.
Pleased, she nods, proffers a bag. I accept, and she departs.
Stars blink now, and the blue moon glows overhead. I rise from the bench, my eyes already leaping through the cemetery, sweeping across stone cat after stone cat. They’re all where they were, ornamentations scattered amongst various graves. Except one.
Did I…miscount? I must’ve.
I cannot move, stilled by thoughts and recollection.
But…no. No, I didn’t… There were seven cats. But…dammit, ma! You can’t be…
My legs start to move, aimless at first, wobbly, then with vigor, dashing between tombstones towards where the one cat is missing.
You’re gonna owe me such an explanation. Can you…even speak as a cat?
Movement catches my eye. A man in overalls. He’s charging towards me, hollering nonsense, a hoe raised above his head. I lunge behind a nearby tombstone, shout back as he passes, “What the fuck!”
He pays me no mind, keeps on.
I shake my head, bite my lip and rise, glaring after him and his maniacal assault. It’s then I spot you—a sleek figure darting just ahead of the man, dark feathers streaming from your mouth like a grotesque trophy. And I don’t know how, but I recognize you instantly. Some inexplicable knowing, deep in my bones.
He’s got you backed against a thin copse of trees, swinging his hoe. Jabbing.
You stand your ground. Hiss and shriek. Bristle.
I come up behind the man, angle myself so he sees me. He shouts something, sounds like profanity, but I wouldn’t know. Flashcards shuffle through my mind. I search for something to say, something he’ll understand.
“Vă rog!” I start, firm, “Gata.” Enunciating every syllable. “Pisica e bună. Vă rog, pisica e bună.”
He jabs again and again. Misses you. Misses you.
“Vă rog!” I implore. Please.
He looks at me, shouts back, “Pisica nu-i bună. E agresivă. Sălbatică.”
From what I understand him say, I agree. You look the part: plumage and bones pouring from your mouth. Jagged. Bloody.
“A mea,” I insist, stepping past him, towards you. “Vă rog, pisica e a mea.”
Breeze and breath fill the silence.
I bend down, scoop you up. You paw at the bag the older woman gave me.
“Mulțumesc,” I say, backing away through the trees. “Mulțumesc.”
He waves us off.
“Plecați de aici! Plecați!”
I hurry, eager to be rid of him, too.
It’s true night now. Bright stars wave from their beds of distance and darkness, thousands of small candles wave back, cozy beside their flowers and tombstones, left behind as the stream of straggling visitors trickles out past the iron gate.
I settle us in the quiet, sit on the steps of a small mausoleum. Look at you.
“Ai venit, Starla! Ești aici.”
My heart skips a beat.
“What?”
“Nu avem mult timp, draga mea. Ascultă-mă.”
Gibberish in my ears, I forget to breathe. Just stare at you.
“No. Nooo. No. You’re a cat. Cats don’t…don’t do that.”
“Starla. Ascultă-mă. Te rog. Ascultă-mă. E foarte important.”
I press against my temples, feel my pulse hasten.
“Ma,” I say, half in disbelief. “Ma, I don’t understand you. I don’t…understand any of this. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead. The fuck is going on? How are you alive? A…a cat. How is…any of this happening?”
I cover my eyes. Breathe.
In all the years that I’ve received these messages from you, I didn’t actually think anything would turn up. It’d just be some sick joke. A misunderstanding. I came here on a whim, not on belief. I came hoping to prove to myself that whatever insanity was transpiring, it was…unprocessed grief manifesting as…something, anything other than this. Because this…can’t be real. Cats don’t talk. Cats don’t talk. THEY DON’T TALK!
I stumble to my feet, pace along the steps, clap the tips of my fingers together. You follow along beside me lithe and calm and regal as any cat. Somehow that makes everything seem even more impossible.
“I don’t even…” I exhale. Stop. Look at you. Away. At you again.
“Concentrează-te, Starla. Concentrează-te,” you say. “Ai telefonul tău?”
“I. Don’t. Under. Stand,” I say, miming to you. “You’re. Supposed. To be. Dead. Why aren’t you dead?”
You roll your eyes, grumpy-growl at me.
Your ears shift back and forth, like you’re listening to something.
“Urmează-mă. Rapid.”
You’re gone, weaving through trees and tombstones. Swallowed by the dead and night.
“Good, god.”
I hurry after you, more stumbling than running. For a time, I can no longer see you, just keep drifting from candle glow to candle glow. Exasperated and weary. Then I hear you: a guttural shriek followed by what sounds like the howl of a man. I hurtle myself in your direction, prickly bushes and chipped tombstones lash and brush against my arms, my pants, scrapes stinging.
I come upon a hooded figure curled on the ground. Rocking, whimpering.
“Ma?” I call out.
A few rows away, behind a tombstone, you call back, “Aici, Starla. Sunt aici.”
I press forward in the direction of your voice, confused and hating myself for leaving the injured person behind. What did you do, ma? What did you do?
A cellphone’s glow illuminates your form in the dark. You’re snarling, pawing at the screen.
“What are you…”
“Trebuie să vorbim, Starla. Am nevoie să înțelegi. De ce nu înțelegi?”
“I don’t understand because you weren’t there to teach me! Fuck!”
I take the phone in my shaking hand, stare at the lock screen. It’s a blur at first, my eyes adjusting to the influx of light, then a young couple. Crisp. Smiling. Bright. The phone slips from my hand—or I let it go. I don’t know. But it lands with a thump on the cobblestone. Cracks. And I teeter to the side, lean against a tombstone. It’s cold and solid and the greatest comfort. I slide down until my butt meets the earth. Just sit there.
“Starla. Dragă.” You come beside me, nuzzle your nose into my leg.
I want to brush you off. I don’t. You’re warm and here and alive. And I don’t. But I don’t embrace you either. Just let you be. Be beside me. You’re here…
“What did you do, ma? Ce ai făcut?”
A growl is your response. Bristling.
I look up. Scream.
A man stands over me. Us. No longer hooded. A deep, clawed-gash marks his left eye. Red pulses and dribbles down his face, splashes against dirtied sneakers and the ground. He yells. Hits me. Shoves me against the tombstone, his grip dizzyingly strong. I can’t think. I let him. I can’t think. I let him. I can’t think.
You don’t let him. You nip, snarl, and claw.
He turns, tries to grab you. You nick his hand. He shuffles, goes to kick you. And I don’t know where you land, only hear the thump. The wheezing that follows.
“Ma,” I say through tight breaths. “Ma.”
I don’t see when he leaves, just know that he’s gone. Phone, too.
Once my feet are under me again, I go to find you. Your breath is sharp, soft, and all I can hear. Neither of us says anything as I scoop you into my arms, hold you to my chest.
“I’m sorry, ma. I’m sorry.”
What I apologize for, I don’t know. Just seems right.
You lick my hand.
I focus on getting you someplace safe where I can take care of you. We’ll figure this all out later.
We have a later…
I trudge towards the exit, draw near. You weigh heavier in my arms, fur stiffens, and streaks of grey ripple across you. You’re turning to stone and your shriek stills my heart. Stills me.
“Nu pot pleca,” your voice is a whisper, cuts deep. It takes all I have not to fall to my knees. “Nu pot. Nu… Nu pot.”
Not knowing what else to do, the blue moon fading from the sky, I take you back, place you where I first found you. The missing cat. And as stone takes you, you say, “Te iubesc, Starla. Draga mea. Te iubesc.”
“Te iubesc, ma.” A tremor in my chest. “Te iubesc.”
I follow the rising sun to leave, pass a still flickering candle and stumble upon that crinkly bag the older woman had given me. Treats fill it, wrapped in packaging with words in your tongue. Some I know. More I don’t. And so I’ll learn. One at a time.
“Until the next blue moon, ma… Ne vedem curând.”