Dead Letters(26)

I muss my hair distractedly as I walk into the bank, momentarily not realizing that I’m imitating one of Zelda’s gestures. The bangles shake unfamiliarly on my forearms. Inside, the bank is chilly and air-conditioned, and I pad softly across the carpet in my sandals to the customer service area. An employee gestures me toward her stall way too enthusiastically, and I walk over, letting my bag plop into the chair. There are always two chairs in front of bankers, suggesting that a single person will never suffice for the creditors.

The woman in front of me is wearing a thick layer of green eye shadow, and her hair is shellacked with hair spray, making the brownish strands crispy and stiff, almost alien in their brittle anti-gravitational mushroom. She has a gigantic smile on her face, and her nails clack unnervingly on the keyboard in front of her. As we face off, I realize that I’m hugely relieved to be doing this in English; in France, I would have had to submit two forms and enter into a verbal sparring match with whoever was at the front desk just to sit down with another human being, which is when the actual negotiations would begin. This woman may be a foreign creature to me, but at least we speak the same language.

“Hi,” I say. A solid beginning.

“Hi there, sweetie. What can I do for you today?” She clasps her hands together and tilts her head attentively. She has clearly attended her customer service training sessions.

“Well, I have a bank account with you, and I’d like to inquire about the status of some loans. I think I’ve gotten off track with my repayment, and I wanted to know about the remaining balance, see about maybe restructuring?” I don’t know exactly what that means, but I am fairly sure it is what one does with loans that one isn’t paying back. Unfortunately, the whole incompetent and clueless act works better with middle-aged men; they immediately get all paternalistic and want to mansplain the contours of the particular pickle in which you’ve found yourself. But I guess I’ll have to settle for the kindly, concerned woman in front of me.

“Of course, sweetheart. Can I just see your proof of identity and your account number?”

“I don’t have the account number on me, but here’s my license,” I say, sliding Zelda’s across the desk. She gives it a cursory glance before typing in my name.

“And your Social?”

I panic for a minute and almost give her mine, but then I remember Zelda’s and spit it out in a relieved rush.

“Antipova…that name sounds familiar,” she prompts.

“My family owns a vineyard a few miles up the lake. Silenus?”

“Oh.” She nods politely, her eyes going carefully blank, and I can tell she recognizes the name of the vineyard and has tasted our wine. She looks at the screen and then frowns. “Oh, goodness,” she says, and glances at me with a new expression.

“What is it?”

“This is quite the loan. I’m very surprised they let a twenty-four-year-old—oops, sorry, twenty-five now!” She beams manically. “Anyway, I’m surprised they let someone your age borrow so much. It’s, uh…” She’s tapping away at her keyboard with frank concern. Zaza, you idiot. How much did you borrow? “I see your mother, Nadine O’Connor, cosigned?”

I nod noncommittally. How did Zelda get Mom to stay lucid enough for a trip to the bank? How did she make her cooperate? I thought I had power of attorney.

“Do you think you could print me out some updated information? The new balance, the interest rates?”

“Well, the balance has only increased, I’m afraid. Dear, you haven’t made any payments on this loan. It’s two months overdue. The bank will have to take action real soon,” she says. She looks genuinely worried for me. I appreciate it, really; I’m just feeling very impatient to get out of here. It’s only a matter of time before someone Zelda and I know wanders into the bank, and I don’t want to risk being called on my charade.

“Things have gotten a little overwhelming, but I’m, uh, ready to take responsibility. For my actions. Choices. My decisions. If you could just print out the information…” I smile brightly.

“Yes, of course. But I’m afraid I will have to notify one of the managers. I’m surprised they haven’t gotten more involved at this stage.” Her mouth has tightened into a taut line of disapproval. A few minutes ago, I was a sweet girl. Now I am a disgraceful debtor, in over her head. Few things are more shameful than insolvency in a country where poverty is a moral failing.

“I understand. How about I make a payment of good faith? Right now?” I rifle through my bag before realizing with a jolt that the name on my checkbook is my own. “Or tomorrow? I don’t seem to have my checkbook with me at the moment,” I finish weakly.

She raises an eyebrow, cynical. “Of course you don’t. You could transfer from one of your other accounts. I see you have some small savings in your checking account.”

“Yeah, let’s do that!” I say in relief. “How about a thousand dollars?”

She looks at me blankly. I’m definitely not going to get called “sweetie” again.

“You don’t have a thousand dollars in your account.”

“Oh. Let’s just move the whole balance, then.” I need to leave. Now.

“Great. I’m moving three hundred and forty-three dollars and seventy-nine cents from your checking account to go toward your loan payment. Which is still overdue. If you’re unable to make the full payment before July 1, I’m afraid you’ll be looking at foreclosure proceedings.”