“Sleep, little boy of mine,
sleep, I’ll watch over you;
may God give you good luck
in this world so untrue.”
—Traditional Andalusian Lullaby
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The doctor is reciting the list; it sounds like a song. Citalopram, escitalopram, fluoxetine, fluvoxamine, paroxetine, sertraline, duloxetine, venlafaxine, amitriptyline, imipramine, nortriptyline, alprazolam, chlordiazepoxide, diazepam, lorazepam, buspirone, isocarboxazid, phenelzine, selegiline, tranylcypromine.
The good news: I can still breastfeed with the stuff he picks out, after looking at my file on his screen for less than a minute. Win-win!
The bad news: I may have problems getting to sleep.
Bad news? That’s a bonus, right? Who wants sleep anyway, when there is so much to do and absolutely no time to do it?
I wake up around five in the morning, while everyone else sleeps, and get to work. This is in fact the third or fourth time I’ve woken up: I am breastfeeding, of course. But the other awakenings haven’t been for me, not really. Here I am, trying to do the impossible. I am trying to match my resumé to a new set of variables on a new set of job specifications. Behind me, my husband is snoring soundly. In the cot the baby stirs. I try to do all of this without breathing: if the baby wakes up, that’s it. I’ll have to stop. There are no two ways about it.
I am an old hand at this. I have done it now eighteen times. Someone once told me that they needed to apply to sixty-five jobs before finding a position. Sixty. Five. The number looms ahead of me, menacingly. I am not as resilient as this friend is. I worry I will not manage sixty-five applications. I worry I will not manage twenty. The rate at which I am losing the energy required to play this game is frankly outstanding. I am also quickly losing whichever focus I thought I possessed at the beginning of the process; whatever that was, for it is oh so difficult to remember … Financial security? Self-worth? Status? Who the hell knows. I read again my so-called ‘accomplishments’. They feel hollow, sound hollow. They are not more special than any other candidate’s will be. They are probably useless in the context of this job. My past life mocks me now, all those things that were so difficult to get, so important that I get them, all that hard work for absolutely nothing, no gain, no prospects, of any kind. The Master’s degree. The second Master’s degree. The third Master’s degree. My husband’s boss has just been awarded her second doctorate. Two. Doctorates. That sobered me up, quickly. He was beaming when he told me, of course, wondering if getting her a card were praise enough. I panicked. Are we now entering a new era in which two doctorates will be needed? When I graduated, I was told I needed a postgraduate degree to teach, so I did one. By the time I was finished, what was needed was a doctorate, so I got one. Then I needed to publish one novel: I did. A couple of them. Three. Now, of course, I cannot find a job. Predictable.
Next, I look at my teaching. I have done everything imaginable, from language instruction to supervising dissertations in a variety of topics. At the time, I accepted those meagres—crumbs fallen from the adults’ table—because I myself needed to eat. Ironic. Now, it seems that their only function is to highlight what little focus I have, how I am a master of all trades, which invariably translates as not being proficient in any.
Next, I look at my publications. I used to think that having one book published would make a difference. A game changer, you know. It didn’t. I used to think that having two books would make a difference. I used to think that having three books would make a difference … etcetera, etcetera.
Next, it is a statement of my teaching philosophy. I cannot understand a word of it myself, so I wonder what others will get out of it.
These seven pages are telling a story, a story that could be mine, or someone else’s. But they do not say anything about me, not really. They don’t explain who I am, what I can do. They do not reflect my passion for teaching, how much I care, actually care, like a moron. I guess, on reflection, that doesn’t really matter. That is not the point. Funny thing: I didn’t realise until now.
*
Wake up, little one. Wake up. Let me tell you a tale, the story of the Iceberg in my living room. This is also, now, your living room, little one. Wake up in a flash, so you can see the Moon, huge like a huge huge plate, shining through our window. The fire is on, the cocoa is hot for mama, the milk dips from my breast to your lip.
Suck, suck, suck.
And you, little one, are content. You, little one, fall asleep again.
So wake, little one. Listen.
What is that thing? You ask. What is that thing, a black and white photograph, framed black on our mantelpiece? That solid cloud dancing on the bright bright Ocean. Is it a boat, mama, all white, all shiny? Is it a cloud, made of mother-of-pearl? Is it a mountain, perhaps?
That, my beloved, that, my sweet, that, my joy, is the Iceberg. What is an iceberg, you ask. It is not a cloud, it is not a boat, it is not a mountain. What you see is only the tip of it, inside the water it is like an upside-down tower. The ice pack. A mighty construction. I will tell you how it went. Those, my sweet, were the mighty keepers of water. We can only see the tip, no idea what is underneath, how much there is underneath …
*
It has started: I am babbling now, making little sense. I become vaguely aware that my face is set in a manic smile, and that I am behaving in a manic way. There are five squares with five faces on them sitting on my computer screen, every single one of them looking at me enquiringly, worryingly, seemingly surprised that I turn out to be as I am. I can understand how they are feeling: I only got this interview because I applied under my husband’s English name, so I am not at all what they were expecting. Will they see beyond that? Beyond my accent, my olive skin, my borrowed name? Will they see me? The eternal question.
‘So, tell us. How would you manage giving one-to-one academic skills support to a variety of learners from a variety of backgrounds, coming from different cultures, speaking different languages, studying a variety of topics, on the actual hours of the appointment? After all, it is a part-time, nought-point-five full time equivalent.’
The Chair smiles genially at his own … Quip? Cruelty? The other faces on the other square boxes, dancing on my computer screen, suppress a little, nervous laugh. I panic. How to give that kind of support with those working conditions, indeed? My reply, the one inside me, fighting to come out, is simply that you can’t do it. Not in this part-time post, not with this excessive number of students. I shut my mouth in time: at least, this is not an hourly-paid position. I should be grateful I’ve got this far.
‘Well …’ I start. I have nothing to go with that. A little cough saves me. Something floats in front my computer, a white shade of fluffiness. I cough for a few more seconds, profusely apologise, drink a sip from my glass. My hand is shaking, and the water makes absolutely no difference. I have prepared answers; I’ve prepared questions and have prepared answers. Not this one. At least, by the time I have drunk, I have come up with a reply that does not sound like a complaint. It is all very vague, too vague. More nervous laughs emerge from my computer screen. More manic grin on my face. My face is fixed. I am not a candidate anymore, but a set of teeth.
*
I am sitting in the living room, looking at the Iceberg. You have finished drinking the sweet milk, are mercifully asleep. For how long? We will see.
I need release. I lie on the floor, the ceiling above me. Would I manage to see through it, to become one with the shooting stars, to touch the stars up there, their maps of light and beauty? I close my eyes, very hard, and force myself to travel up, become one with them. Anything but here, this failure, which soon you will come to understand. Sweet escape! I run fast through the ether, fast through the sky. I am one with the dark and the galaxy and all the constellations shining bright; the stars shouting at me, saying hello.
Hello Moon! Hello comets! Hello stars!
Night is my friend, and I go up and up and up, let myself fall into her.
I fly so hard North that there is no way back. Where do I fly? To the iceberg in the picture. Of course. The iceberg in the picture, framed in black, that my husband gave me as a present, back in the days when I was young, back in the days when I was beautiful; back in the days when he still loved me, when he didn’t want to sleep with others.
Why did he present me with this one, in particular? What does it mean? Does it mean that he intuited more to me that met the eye? Or does it mean that he expected more from me? What a failure I must be to him, what a disappointment. The same failure, the same disappointment that I am to myself.
*
Once the resumé is done, I need to write a covering letter. I need to write another covering letter. I need to write a ‘new’ covering letter, which will be a composite of all my previous covering letters, a collage of pretensions and half-truths, a patchwork of how interesting I can possibly make myself sound—all lies, of course—a mighty Frankenstein-letter, stitched up in ink and words and paper.
*
As soon as I land, I know the ice is my friend. The ice loves me, the ice looks after me. The ice engulfs me with its quiet calm. My feet are feeling the sting of the cold through my pink slippers; I am not wearing the right clothes. The packed ice is crunching underneath me. I have wanted many things until now. I have wanted wheels, so I could jump in and get away, as far as I needed to go, as far I wanted to go, and never feel trapped anywhere. I have wanted things, books and clothes, and pink slippers, so I could understand who I am again, remind myself who I am. Books and clothes and security and a career. I have wanted a home somewhere, waiting for me, so I could feel safe, so I could feel that I belonged. I had wanted a living room, and in the living room a mantelpiece, and on top of it the print of a picture, an iceberg, perhaps, or some long gone thing that doesn’t exist in our world any longer. I have wanted it all, craved it all. But I’ve never wanted the burden of things before. Why did I think they would ground me?
I am unable to sleep. The Moon lights up the room. I know, suddenly, what I truly desire. I have wanted you, little one, so badly. What took you so long?
