Insomniac City: New York, Oliver, and Me(40)

I thought about asking Ilona if she had been married or had kids, but I stayed quiet. One day, I’d take another picture of her, and I would ask her to tell me about herself.

Every now and then, Ilona would put down her pencil and smudge a line with her finger, or take a small eraser and erase something. The pencils were all in shades of orange, lighter versions of the color of her hair and eyelashes.

“I’m almost done,” Ilona said. I remembered how she’d told me on the phone that it would take twenty minutes, a half hour at most, and I noticed the green digital clock near her; indeed, about twenty minutes had passed.

She stopped, put down her pencils, looked at it carefully, smiled and nodded. “Here,” Ilona said, “your eye,” turning the drawing so I could see it.

I reached for my glasses and put them on. I felt speechless. Not only was it an accurate depiction of an eye, it was very clearly my eye—I recognized it—and although there was only one eye on the small piece of paper, it was as if the rest of my face were somehow there too: I could see my whole face in that one part of my body. I could see myself.

I admit, I was surprised. I hadn’t known what to expect, I hadn’t known if she could even draw; but indeed she could draw very well—and with delicacy, sensitivity.

Ilona could tell that I was pleased. She clapped her hands together. “Marvelous!” She turned the drawing back in her direction. “Isn’t that the most beautiful eye!” she exclaimed. This wasn’t meant as self-praise but instead as an appraisal of the eye itself.

I chuckled with embarrassment. “Thank you,” I said, “what an amazing gift, I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re welcome, thank you for the gift of your photographs. I’m happy we are becoming friends. Now,” her tone changed, “I must spray it, so it doesn’t smear.” She handed me a can of varnish. “Can you shake that? You’re much stronger than me.”





By Ilona Royce Smithkin



I stood and began shaking the can, a familiar sound—the steel ball inside clattering—reminding me of all the cans of spray paint and varnish lined up on a shelf in the basement of my childhood home. I felt enormous standing next to her, not only hugely, comically muscular—like a wrestler in the ring on TV—but tall, which I’m not—I am only five foot seven.

“That’s enough!” she cried above the racket—I’d gotten carried away, lost in my reverie—and I handed the can of varnish back to Ilona. She squeezed through the crack out into her hallway, sprayed the drawing, and returned. “It has to dry for a while. Now, shall we have something to drink? Coffee or vodka? Those are the only two things I know how to make.”

“Vodka!” I said. “We must toast.”

Ilona broke into a big smile. “Wonderful!” she said.

She made her way to the back right corner of the apartment, crouched down, and began rummaging. I gathered that this was the “kitchen area,” though there was no stove, oven, or full-size refrigerator, only a toaster oven. “I’m going to choose a very special vodka,” she said. “C?roc, do you know it?”

“No,” I said, “that sounds wonderful.” I could see her pouring from what looked like a vodka bottle from an airplane.

Ilona brought over two very small blue glasses, about twice the size of a thimble, filled with vodka. We clinked glasses. “To a new friendship,” Ilona said.

“Yes, to friendship,” and we both took small sips.





Ilona at My Window





NOTES FROM A JOURNAL

9-4-14:

Today was the hottest day of the summer, hot and punishingly humid, as if the city needed to prove that it still had it in it. The heat makes people tense and cranky, but it also bonds—people talk about it in the elevator, in cabs, on the street—commiserate, reassure each other: It’ll pass; fall will be here soon. But on the other hand, the sunsets on days like this are amazing, thanks to smog and heat, the color of the sky unclassifiable—almost a reminiscence, a recrudescence, of pink.

I decided to soak it all up, take a walk. I stopped at Ali’s. “Hello, Sir,” I said, imitating the way he says it to me. We shook hands. “How you doing?”

“Tired.” He told me he hadn’t had a single day off in a month—the boss is away—and he doesn’t get one till next week.

That sounded brutal. “So, what will you do on your day off? Hang out at home …?”

Ali nodded. “Have the sleep, the eat …” He shrugged. “But you can’t plan. Something might happen. The day off doesn’t come, then what? Everything bad. You plan the day on the day,” Ali said with real clarity, force. “Not before.”

I told him that makes good sense: Take each day as it comes, don’t overthink it.

“Yes, my friend, yes.”

_____________________

At the corner of Eighth and Jane, the light was red. I noticed a man on the bench in front of the Tavern on Jane. He held a piece of wood and a jackknife. I couldn’t resist: “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Carving a piece of wood.”

That was a great answer.

I rephrased: “What are you making?” I crouched next to him. The man was probably seventy-five or older, and thin and small. He wore a baseball cap.