One of each denomination... a single, a five spot, a ten and a twenty. Thirty-six dollars so tidy, so deliberate, so dear.
Into the bandaid box they go, rolled with the single on the outside and crammed next to a dozen other similar rolls. They remind me of cigarettes. Twelve dollars is for this week’s tutoring session and twenty four for what he owes me for last week and the week before. Thursday after Thursday, Georges chips away at his ignorance of English. His thick lips work hard to produce the new sounds of English and wrestle its absurd grammar. Japanese and French, so complicated to my ear, roll trippingly off his tongue. Born in Japan, he moved to “Ros a Ahnjeres” from Paris last year where he lived from age eleven to twenty one. He’s two years older than I am and is going to be a famous film-maker.
Today, as usual he’s dressed completely in black. An opera cape tied at the neck swoops behind him like a tot’s super-hero cape, accentuating his hollowed out frame. His shoulder-length black hair is pulled into a loose band at his neck. He doesn’t so much sit as alight - like a dragonfly - twitching - more apt to dart off again than to sit still. His smile, too, flits. Some teeth are missing and the spaces pull the curtain of his mouth down when they feel shy.
He asks about my feet. He knows I dance. Six classes a week; three on point. Recently, my feet hurt a lot. The sesamoid bone in the ball joint of each big toe is in two pieces - a genetic mishap. Swelled, red, bunionesque protrusions butt up against the insides of my toe shoes and hurt more with every jump, turn and plie. By the end of a ninety minute class I’m in tears.
Dr. Lucien prescribed Indomethicin - an anti-inflammatory. It jacks up my stomach. Ex-boyfriend Gypsy prescribed Foster’s Lager beer and Robitussin Cough medicine with codeine. They both jack up my head. I’ve decided to tough it out.
Today, I’m feeling very Russian and very dramatic. My high-neck white lace blouse, with cameo pin at the throat, is tucked into my calf-length cocoa colored skirt. I have cinched the waist so tightly with safety pins where the button should be, that my stomach hasn’t room to complain - even if I had taken the Indomethecin. This outfit is one of my post-hippy experiments with grown-up clothes. I’m an English tutor at Los Angeles City College and have to look the part - professional.
Still, my feet hurt. What idiot would stuff these puppies into ill-fitting high heeled boots just because they match the skirt, and make the Russian theme come alive? What idiot would ask these puppies to walk from where I found parking six blocks away? It is I who ask these puppies to comply. It is Georges who begins today’s session on the quad in the slanting afternoon sunlight with a recipe for reducing the pain in my big toe joints. It’s sweet that he’s been thinking about my feet.
“First, you beat two eggwhites until they very fluffy.” I begin writing it down.
“Chop a half a onion very, very fine - maybe even grate it. Add little bit a frour.” His mouth struggles with this last word - making it sound more like “FRAU-RER.”
I look up to see his deliberate pronunciation. He sees the question on my brow. “Like a wheeet fraurer; like you use a make a bled... toast.”
“Wheat flour,” I say and write it down, feeling more and more puzzled by this recipe to relieve foot pain.
Georges goes on to explain, “You mix a all togeza like a paste. At night you put on feet and wrap in cloth and a plastic bag. You go sleep.” I’m writing and wondering if this is a joke... if he’s making fun of me.
“Pain in foot smells onion and come out a see what is. Eggwhite and fraurer paste catch it good and hold a all night long. In a morning you wash a off. Soak a feet in vinegar ten minute.”
“What kind of vinegar?”
“Apple cider vinegar, rice vinegar... no matta... no, no wine vinegar.”
“No wine vinegar,” I write.
“Zen you rub a foot with olive a oil. You do this three nights in a row. You miss a night, you start a over. You see. You be betta. You dance.”
“O.K. Georges, I’ll give it a try.” I say, putting the recipe in my Indian mirror-cloth handbag that does not go with my Russian theme. I hide it under my shawl which does complete the outfit nicely. “Let’s see your progress on the script.”
He pulls out a sheaf of twenty dog-eared pages from his black leather satchel and we get to work. The scent of fine cow-hide lifts from his eraser-smudged pages - widening my nostrils in a pleasurable way as I lean my head on my hand, my elbow propped on the lunch table. He sits straddling the bench, his spine curled forward in concentration. We read and correct, read and correct. He is making progress on his script, for sure.
I try Georges’ recipe for two nights, soaking my feet in vinegar for ten minutes the next morning, and spending another thirty minutes showering to get the vinegar smell off. On the third morning, I don’t have time for the soaking and the washing and I just don’t want to smell like a salad, so I don’t exactly follow the recipe all the way for three days. Even so, I notice that my “Russian boots” don’t feel so tight, my toe-shoes don’t feel like Iron Maidens and my feet are just not as painful.
Thursday afternoon, I wait on the quad for Georges - eager to give him the “foot notes.” At 4:20 he’s still nowhere to be seen. At 4:45 I leave a note addressed to Georges under a rock on our table: “Gone to tutoring office. Call me.”
Next to the door of the office is a bulletin board. I scan it. There is a note with my name on it. The phone memo reads: To Mindy Maxwell, Date: 4-24-69 Time: 1:10 pm. Message: Georges F. went to Japan, grandmother sick. Please say thank you.
I never saw Georges again. I wish I could have said, “Thank You.”
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