Mary, Mary

Whenever it rains in Tbilisi, a small army of snails appear. They climb rock walls. They trot across the wet stones around fountains. They poke their faces from shells, sniffing the air. A handful of people collect them as an unexpected meal, cramming their meat into dumplings or cooking them right in their shells. I have fond memories of La Jummelle on Grand Street in Soho, back in the New York that taught curious young palettes like mine about snails cooked in special pans, lashed in good butter, the garlic chopped ever so fine, fragrant but not burned - the odd chew of the first bite, a slosh of cold wine, galloping back and forth between the plate and the funny little fork until they were all gone, followed by swipes of baguette, soaking up every exotic drop.

I have not eaten a snail in years.

V showed me a plastic cup one rainy afternoon. She had written “Mary” on the lid. Inside, a snail stared back up at us, bedded on moist soil, a slice of cucumber ready for her lunch, a wildflower for decoration. The snail seemed content, saved from the sidewalk and what dangers awaited her there.

Each day, V fed her, cleaning out the cup, staring gently at her little friend that now lived on our balcony.

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And then one morning, V came to me, her face dead pale.

“Mary is gone.” She mumbled.

I could not keep from laughing once, a sort of impulsive bark.

We went to the balcony and sure enough, the snail was gone.

“What - a bird flew down and took her?” I asked the cloudy sky. “Nah - not possible.”

N stood with her hands on her hips, squinting at one of the windows. She pointed at the glass, and a trail of slime that wandered straight up.

“She shit all over the window!” She announced.

We stood there for a little while, imagining what fate had befallen this little creature.

Next, N pointed at the roof of the balcony and nudged me. There, hidden behind a pipe, Mary had tucked herself into a corner. I climbed onto a chair, and plucked her out, shrugging my shoulders, wondering if she had run away or simply was exploring the territory.

“Mary, Mary why you bugging”?” I sang, mostly to myself.

We put her back in the cup, and V cut plenty of holes in a lid that was then snapped hard over it.

Mary ran away again, even getting past the lid somehow. She went to the same spot of ceiling, as strange an oasis as we could imagine.

I don’t know if she wants to be here, or simply goes on her Rumspringas because that is her nature. I don’t even know if she is female, and a teenager - that is all clumsy logic, convenient and poignant.

Mary is Mary.

Maybe we hold onto the idea that she is not a prisoner, but a guest we saved from a dangerous land.

N and V went to the black sea, for a week of folk dancing in the sand. I am left to care for Mary, to ferry slices of cucumber to her, to make sure she is cozy. Knowing she is there on the balcony gives me pause, and calm. Someone to take care of, someone to keep me from feeling alone.