Irina’s mother was around fifty years old and was one of those “special” women, meaning she wore lipstick, blush, her eyebrows were so plucked that nothing was left of them, and, of course, “soot” on her eyelashes. For whom had she dolled up like this?
She was a tired wreck, but… she was her mother.
I profoundly disliked her. From the way she looked, she was a phony. Women who paint their faces with a brush are either whores or fools. Sometimes both.
I remember during high school, on one of my skipping days, I saw an interesting movie at the cinema, a kind of dark comedy. The plot was simple:
A guy had gotten married and had taken one of those, a special one.
On their wedding night, they retired to the bridal room for some discussions. He got into bed and waited for her. She was standing in front of the mirror.
She wiped off her lipstick.
She removed her makeup and mascara.
She placed her false eyelashes on the table.
She took off her wig. She was bald.
She pulled out two rolls of cotton from her bra.
She took out her dentures.
She removed an eye. She had a glass eye.
Finally, she took off her wooden leg and leaned it against the wall, then hopped to the bed.
The guy jumped out the window.
That’s why I say: I didn’t like Irina’s mother at all.
My mother never wore makeup, and I loved her. Irina didn’t wear makeup, and I loved her.
Why do women disfigure themselves like this?
“He’s Tiberiu,” Irina said from behind her mother. “He’s a law student and likes pastries.”
“Uh-huh,” her mother said, sizing me up from head to toe.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” Irina excused herself, leaving. “I’m taking a shower. I’ll let you get acquainted.”
We were left alone. We sized each other up like two dogs wanting to pee on the same car tire.
“Good afternoon, ma’am!”
“Good afternoon, handsome! Why are you just standing there? Come in, dear, come in!”
She led me to the living room. Irina had disappeared.
I sat on the couch. The couch was nice. It hugged me from behind, I sank into it. It was soft and pleasant. I liked it.
In front of the couch was a small table. I heard water running in the bathroom.
Irina and her mother had a lot of flowerpots in the living room.
Flowers on the walls, flowers on the shelves, flowers on the cupboard, flowers on the radiator near the balcony door… other flowers. Actually, not flowers. Just plants… Fucking weeds. Green stems and green leaves of all shapes. I counted about 28 pots, then got bored and stopped.
I hate weeds, especially in the house. I feel like they take away my air. My mother, likewise, had a real obsession with ‘weeds’. When my father came home drunk, he often threw her pots against the wall.
I don’t understand people who turn their homes into jungles. Since I can remember, from childhood to this day, I can walk past flowers without noticing them, unlike others who stop and exclaim: “Wow, what a beautiful flower!”
Seriously? What the hell do you find so beautiful about it?
“Women are really weird,” I sighed to myself.
Her mother ended my thoughts. She placed a tray on the table with a glass of water, another empty glass, a bottle of wine, and a corkscrew, then sat down on the couch to my left.
I glanced at her and felt sick. The pastry was churning in my stomach. I felt like taking out my handkerchief right there and wiping that mess off her cheeks. She looked like a monkey that had escaped into a cosmetics store. An old monkey with wide hips, a big belly, and swollen, sagging breasts.
My Irina didn’t look anything like her.
“But what if she turns out like her later?” I thought, horrified. Oh no… impossible!
“Have some water, honey. What’s wrong? You look a bit pale. Are you feeling well?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Maybe you want a glass of wine. How old are you?”
“Almost twenty-one,” I replied, straightening my back. “Thank you, but I don’t drink. And I added with newfound courage: I’m a declared enemy of alcoholic beverages!”
I had to make a good impression, for heaven’s sake!
“So you don’t drink. That’s very nice! No worries, more for me,” she said with a fake smile. “Be a dear and open the wine bottle for me. It takes a man’s hands for that. You have strong hands, don’t you?”
Shit! I really didn’t like that woman.
I stood up, screwed in the corkscrew, the cork popped, and I poured her a glass. She scrutinized my every move.
“Well, even if you don’t drink, at least you know how to properly open a bottle,” she said mockingly. “What did you say your name was, strong man?”
“Tiberiu,” I replied, making an effort to meet her gaze.
“Tiberiu, Ti… be… riu…” she whispered thoughtfully. “Bravo! You have the name of a very famous Roman emperor.”
“Thank you, ma’am!”
“And very debauched, if I remember correctly,” she added.
I scratched my head. What was I supposed to say to that? To keep my hands busy, I grabbed the glass of water from the table. The water tasted like rusty pipes.
“Did you know my Irina is twenty-four years old?” she asked suddenly, with a serious face. “She’s older than you.”
“That doesn’t bother me, ma’am.”
“It should bother you!” the monkey immediately contradicted, then continued with an icy voice: “Be honest, boy. What do you want from my little girl?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing!”
“Good,” she approved, satisfied. “Perfect! Because that’s exactly what you’ll get. Irina is a good girl. She minds her life, her job, her studies. I told her to bring you here,” she continued, laughing like a horse. “I wanted to meet you. I wanted to know who is the boy following her around and if you have any serious intentions.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, you do, honey. You understand, but you’re playing dumb. I was asking if you want to marry her.”
The sky fell on my head.
“Now?” I stammered. “Well… I’m a student. I haven’t even finished school.”
“Yeah, I thought so! Here’s the deal: my little girl is good and pure. I want her to stay that way.”
“I assure you she’ll stay that way. I don’t want anything else either, ma’am.”
“Oh, don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ You make me feel like an old lady. Call me Ella.”
So the monkey’s name was Ella.
“I can’t call you Ella,” I said, smiling.
How the hell could I call her Ella? She didn’t even look like an Ella.
“And why can’t you, may I ask?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right.”
“Then maybe you want to call me ‘mother-in-law’?”
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
“I assure you there’s nothing between me and Irina.”
“Perfect. That’s how it’ll stay. Do you want another glass of water, honey, before you leave?”
“No, thank you!”
I felt the urge to kill the bitch. She sat on that couch, sipping her wine and measuring me up and down with a look half disgusted, half amused.
“Irina’s in the shower,” she said, “then she needs to sleep after her night shift. And I… I have some work to do. Actually, I have a lot of work. I’m glad I met you, Tiberiu, the enemy of alcohol. You’re a very nice kid, and I’ll let you go. Come on, up you go! I’ll walk you to the door.”
I left without seeing Irina again.
Irina’s mother was a nightmare. I hadn’t considered such obstacles!
Then I decided I wasn’t going to let a painted monkey destroy my happiness.
Between me and that whore, there was going to be war.
With casualties!
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