Dreams of Significant Girls - Softcover

Cristina García is the author of six novels, including the National Book Award finalist Dreaming in Cuban; children’s books; anthologies; and poetry. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and a Whiting Writers’ Award, among other honors, and is currently University Chair in Creative Writing at Texas State University-San Marcos. Visit her website at CristinaGarciaNovelist.com.  

Dreams of Significant Girls DAY ONE

VIVIEN WAHL

Sometimes I think my parents sent me to Switzerland because they didn’t want me around. Things were going downhill for my father ever since we moved from Miami to New York City. My dad was kind of unusual for a Cuban exile. First, he was Jewish when most Cubans were Catholic, like my mother. Second, he was politically liberal—a registered Democrat, in fact—and believed that Cubans off the island should talk to the Cubans on the island. That made him Public Enemy Number One in Miami.

When the other Cuban exiles found out that Max Wahl had gone to Havana to hold secret meetings with El Líder, they called him a traitor, and worse. We got threatening phone calls in the middle of the night and we had to check for bombs under our car—a 1957 Cadillac, identical to our old car in Havana. Papi learned how to shoot a gun, kept one in a holster under his jacket. He took me to shooting ranges behind my mother’s back. Kids at school shunned me, called me the Communist’s daughter. Nobody invited me to their birthday parties. Plus people boycotted my father’s three jewelry stores and he had to close down two of them in a year.

My mother begged my father to leave Miami, to start fresh in another city where no one would ostracize him for his political beliefs. So when I was twelve years old, we moved to New York City. Talk about shock. Talk about noise. Talk about rude. But it didn’t take me more than a month to get used to it, and to love it. Everyone was curious about me. They wanted to know why I spoke Spanish and whether I’d ever seen an alligator. When I told my classmates that I’d been to the Everglades and had gotten this close to an alligator—showing them pictures to prove it—I was instantly popular.

Things didn’t go as well for my parents. Papi worked all the time. He traveled to Africa to buy diamonds for his new import business. We hardly ever saw him. This made my mother very lonely. Whenever I wanted to hang out with friends after school, she made me feel so guilty that half the time I didn’t go. Late at night, I’d hear my parents arguing. Mom cried and accused Dad of abandoning her. She suspected that he was having an affair. He countered that maybe he didn’t want to come home to a depressed wife every night. So off I went to “safe” Switzerland so they could sort things out.

I’d never been on a flight by myself before, much less one where you got to choose what you wanted to eat from a menu. I ordered everything that came with cream sauce and a crème brûlée for dessert. Then I settled in to read my volume of J. D. Salinger stories. I brought ten books with me, all fiction. The Swiss camp promised that I’d be exceedingly busy: three hours of French classes in the morning, sports and activities in the afternoon (I chose horseback riding, water skiing, cooking, and ceramics), with nightly activities on top of that. I packed a flashlight in case my only time to read was under the bedcovers. In third grade, I got glasses from reading in the dark. Every time my mother looked at me with my thick tortoiseshell glasses, she’d sigh, as if I’d been permanently disfigured.

The plane flew only half the night but because of the time change, it was already morning when we arrived in Geneva. The Pierpont Boarding School for Girls had a booth set up in the airport to greet the students, who came from around the world. On the shuttle bus to campus, I talked to a girl from Turkey and another from Sweden and heard languages I couldn’t figure out at all. There was a sense of nervous excitement, as if we’d eaten too much chocolate. Almost everyone spoke a little English, and that quickly became the common language. There was a shy girl from Italy who couldn’t join the conversation, so I tried to translate as best I could.

We drove along the shores of Lake Geneva for a while before coming to the village of Rolle. The first thing I noticed were the number of pastry shops everywhere. They looked perfect, with éclairs and petit fours beckoning to me from the glistening windows. Let me just tell this straight: I have a serious sweet tooth. I believe every meal should start with dessert and work its way backward. Don’t even bother with appetizers. I was a pretty decent baker and made everything from scratch: vanilla chip macadamia cookies, double fudge cake, you name it. I was desperate to go to cooking school but my parents told me it wasn’t a career fit for an educated girl.

When the bus turned into the majestic, oak-lined driveway of Pierpont, everyone stopped talking for a minute. It was a sunny day and the grounds were impeccable: rose gardens and elephant topiaries and arched trellises with purple bell-shaped flowers I’d never seen before. It was like entering paradise. During the year, Pierpont was one of the fanciest boarding schools in Europe. But in the summer, it opened its doors for a month and became a kind of luxury camp for kids who wanted, or who were forced by their parents, to study French.

I looked around and wondered if the other students thought it as beautiful as I did. Maybe they were so wealthy that nothing impressed them. I started thinking about my father and how he’d lost so much money in Miami and now had to go flying off to Africa to make a living; about our rambling apartment on West Sixty-fifth Street; about my mother shopping the sales at Lord & Taylor. We were still well off but probably nothing like the girls who came here.

By the time I got to my room, one of my roommates had already claimed the bed by the window. Her name was Ingrid and she was Canadian-German and alarmingly tall. I had to strain my neck to talk to her. She wore a gigantic mood ring on her left middle finger that was indicating extreme hostility. Frankly, the German part of her made me kind of nervous after all the World War II stories I’d heard from my dad. I calmed down by telling myself that this girl had nothing to do with what’d happened to Papi thirty years ago.

Ingrid was fifteen, a year older than me, but she seemed a lot older; not just because of her height but because of the way she carried herself, as if she knew about everything in advance. She had this enormous toolbox beside her bed but I was afraid to ask her what was in it. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would need a wrench in this place. The first thing Ingrid did was offer me a cigarette, even though the teachers had told us during orientation that smoking was forbidden except for the senior girls, who had their own smoking lounge.

I took one, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. She pulled out a gold lighter with the initials I. B. and I held my cigarette to the flame.

“You might want to try putting the cigarette in your mouth,” Ingrid said with a smirk.

I shrugged then sucked on the end of that cigarette for all it was worth. My mouth and nose filled with hot smoke but it also felt like it was going behind my eyes, out my ears. At that rate, the fire department would be arriving any minute. Predictably, I had a coughing fit. Ingrid ignored this fact and pulled out some miniature bottles of liquor she’d saved from the airplane and offered to make us a welcome drink.

“Maybe later,” I croaked. I had the feeling she was trying to test me, to see how far I would go. She drank down the contents of a red labeled bottle of whiskey in one gulp.

“Have you ever worn a paper dress?” she asked flippantly.

“Uh, no.”

“I highly recommend them. They save time undressing, if you know what I mean.”

Thankfully, the dinner bell broke up the awkwardness and we headed down to the dining room. There were place cards at every table and we scrambled to find our seats. After interminable announcements in French, we got down to the business of eating. On a culinary basis alone, I knew I was going to like it at Pierpont. Never mind the steamed artichokes with garlic remoulade. Or the grilled pork chops with roasted potatoes. For dessert, there was a delicious apple tart topped with crème anglaise.

Between mouthfuls I chatted with a pint-size New Yorker named Hope, who informed me immediately that she lived on Park Avenue and Sixty-fifth. When I told her that I lived on Sixty-fifth Street too, but on the west side and I went to public school, she sniffed and turned her attention to the neighbor on her left. To my right was a tentative Egyptian girl who spoke perfect, British-accented English. Jamila was tiny and fine boned, like a hummingbird. She couldn’t have weighed more than eighty pounds soaking wet. We found common ground in books. Jamila was a huge fan of E. M. Forster—a writer I’d heard of but hadn’t yet read—as well as Virginia Woolf. Definitely more advanced than me but we agreed to exchange books over the summer. I was relieved to have made a friend.

After dinner, we listened to the extracurricular instructors deliver presentations about their classes. The waterskiing coach went off on some long digression about Descartes. A Dutch girl who’d been there the year before explained that the coach was getting a doctorate in philosophy at the Sorbonne. The cooking teacher, Monsieur d’Aubigné, gave his spiel dressed in kitchen whites and a toque, slapping a wooden spoon in one hand. The most hilarious pitch came from the water ballet instructor, Madame Delfin (that was her real name, I swear), who began demonstrating underwater breathing techniques right on the spot. When everyone laughed, she furiously gasped like a flounder.

Back in my room, our third and last roommate—cinnamon skinned with enormous brown eyes—was settling herself on the bed nearest the door. She didn’t look too happy about it. I introduced myself and tried to ask her a few neutral questions. She replied with minimal syllables, as if each word were painful to utter.

“So what’s your name?”

“Shirin.”

“Where are you from?”

“Iran.”

“What do you like to do?”

“Mathematics.”

“Mathematics?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Okay, so maybe this roommate thing wasn’t going to work out too well, after all.
SHIRIN FIROUZ

Despite the inconveniences, I was willing to try to get along. My three older brothers had gone to boarding school in Switzerland and were established at good colleges, or in the military. (Bahman was studying chemistry at Oxford; Asad was finishing his engineering degree at Heidelberg; and Cyrus had joined the Air Force and was flying fighter jets.). I was the youngest in my family by nine years. My parents claimed they’d been quite happy with three boys before I came along as a “surprise.” From day one, I was a fragile child and demanded a great deal of attention. Everything displeased me or made me cry. Only my maternal grandmother, whom everyone said I resembled, could entertain me with her fanciful tales. It was true that I was indulged, some might say spoiled, but who could blame me? This was how I was raised.

Where I come from, a daughter like me, a delicate daughter after three strong boys, was extravagantly cherished, perhaps more so because of my sensitivities. Of course, I was pretty enough, but I was also very smart, especially in math. From an early age, I could tell you the square root of high multiples in a matter of seconds. The numbers would appear to me as if spelled out in a clear blue sky. Teachers told my parents I had a gift. When I was in fifth grade, I began tutorials with a mathematics professor at the University of Tehran. I could be in college by now, had I insisted. But my mother worried that I would be socially stigmatized. This was considered a terrible blight for a girl in Iranian society. No matter how intelligent, no matter how ambitious, she is largely assessed by her ability to attract a good husband.

In short, my parents sent me to summer boarding school in Switzerland so that I could socialize with girls my age. Girls from good families, my mother stressed. Girls with a future. She thought it would be beneficial for me to share a room, make friends, get out from behind my books. She signed me up for tennis, sailing, archery, and advanced horseback riding.

Let me be perfectly clear: I had never before shared a room with anyone. It came as an unpleasant shock. There was no nanny to unpack my trunks. No housemaid to run my bath and make certain the temperature was a welcoming degree of warm. There were supposed to be dances with a boys’ boarding school. Boys from good families, Maman stressed. Boys with a future. I did not have any particular interest in boys beyond my brothers. What could they possibly offer me?

My first day was inauspicious. My plane was delayed by six hours, the airline lost one of my bags (the one with my Theoretical Physics textbooks), and the scheduled limousine never bothered to show up (I had to take a taxi all the way to the Swiss boarding school). By the time I arrived, everyone was eating dinner and I hurried to find my seat at a back table, clearly the least desirable.

As I ate my way, leaf by leaf, to the artichoke’s soggy heart, I listened to the conversation around me. It was the same insecure litany of privileged progeny everywhere: what their fathers did for a living (bankers and industrialists, for the most part), the locations of their second and third homes (ski chalets in Gstaad; apartments in London; country homes in Provence), where they went to school (elite private institutions, naturally), and which cars they had been promised when they came of age (Porsches, BMWs, one Maserati). Honestly, I could not have been more bored.

For the first ten minutes, nobody bothered to ask me a single question. It was not until the second course arrived that people took notice.

“Do you eat pork?” a lumpy girl from Düsseldorf asked me.

Sometimes it was the only shred of pseudo-knowledge that Europeans exhibited about Muslims, or the Middle East. I could have explained to her that my mother was of mixed heritage and my father a Muslim (and a prince, it so happened), that we celebrated both Christmas and Islamic holy days, that we served alcohol at home and at parties, and that yes, on occasion, we even ate pork. I could have told the girl from Düsseldorf all this, but the chances were it would not have changed her misinformed ideas.

“Yes,” I said simply, cutting off a piece of pork and putting it in my mouth.

Everyone at the table turned to stare at me as I chewed, swallowed, and cut off another piece. She speaks! She eats! What further wonders will this exotic creature exhibit for our entertainment? This is what their facial expressions seemed to say. It was dully tiresome. As my father once chided me, I would have made a dreadful ambassador.

“She’s lying,” the Düsseldorf girl insisted. “She’s just doing it to show off.”

Nobody had ever questioned my integrity before, and certainly never over something as insignificant as a morsel of pork. Where I came from, my family’s word was law. To question us, to imply that we were lying, was to insult us deeply. And to insult us meant to court imprisonment, or worse. Trust me, if the German girl had known this, she would have kept her mouth shut.

Things did not improve when I went to my room. The two best beds were already taken, and my bed was wedged against the front wall, where every footstep and squeal in the hallway was audible to me. I did not know what to make of my roommates. There was a plump girl from New York whose parents were from Cuba. It was not until I spotted her shelf crammed with books that I ...