A Touch of Passion (boxed set romance bundle)

by Uvi Poznansky

  All I could do was burst out with, “Why didn’t you write to me?”

  In turn she blurted out, “Why didn’t you?”

  Which set me back on my heels. I gasped, realizing that I should try to start this conversation over, this time in a gentler manner, without pointing blame. But it seemed to be too late. Not only silence stood between us now but also words.

  “All these long months dragging by,” said Natasha, “and not a word, not a sign of life from you! My God, I thought you were dead!”

  “What? I wrote to you every week,” I countered. “Sometimes a few times a week.”

  To which she cried, “No, that can’t be! I never got a single letter.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Are you doubting me, Lenny?”

  “No, but—”

  “But what, exactly?” she asked, flustered by the way I persisted with my resistance to her. “Every morning I asked Mama, as she went out shopping, to go to the post office, bring my fan mail and stuff, and send my letters to you. And then, when she came back, I would ask her, each and every time, if there was anything from you. Invariably, the answer would be the same.”

  “Let me guess! It was this: No.”

  She shook her head angrily, which brought a bit of color back to her cheeks. For a moment she was unable to utter a word.

  “Natasha,” I said, “anyone could have told you the answer even before the question was asked. Your Ma, she hates me—”

  “Doesn’t!”

  “Does, too!”

  “So?”

  “So I bet it was her! She discarded my letters, or else she has them stashed somewhere, deep down in some dark corner, out of sight.”

  “No,” said Natasha, shaking her head. “She’s protective of me, but still. Ma would never do anything like that. I mean, I trust her. I rely on her, totally.”

  And a minute later she whispered, mostly to herself, “Would she?”

  War Can Wait

  Chapter 16

  The old woman came back from the reception desk, with room keys dangling from her heavy hand. She pursed her lips with displeasure to see me standing next to her daughter. With a firm grip she pulled her away from me.

  “Come, Natashinka,” she said. “It’s been a long night.”

  The girl responded with an intense look.

  “You must be tired,” said the old woman, spreading her fingers and raking the girl’s hair so that every strand would be gathered up into the headband in the most proper way.

  Natasha shook her head, but said not a word.

  “Our room is ready,” said her Mama. “Let’s go.”

  The girl didn’t stir.

  On a whim, I stepped forward.

  “I poured my heart into those letters, Natasha. Where they went, I have no idea. Somebody,” I said, glancing sideways at her Ma, “somebody must know the answer to that!”

  Face reddening, the old woman caught my gaze.

  “Hello again, young man,” she said, acidly. “Somebody must advise you to keep your day job, whatever that might be, because you’re not going to make it as a writer.”

  “How would you know?” I asked, slyly. “Did you happen to read anything I wrote?”

  She stammered. “I, I doubt that you’ve managed to write anything worth reading.”

  And to her daughter she said, in an urgent tone, “You coming?”

  “In a minute,” said the girl.

  With a huff for an answer, the old woman turned around. She glared at me one more time, the keys in her fist clacking a furious rhythm. Then she marched off to wait for the girl at the opposite side of the reception area, in front of the elevators.

  Natasha took a step closer and raised her head to me. I thought I spotted a little smile playing on her lips, which filled me with something potent, something I had not felt for quite a while: a sense of happiness.

  The thought of sweeping her into my arms crossed my mind, followed by the thought of a kiss, but before I could make a move, here she was, hands gliding ever so tenderly over my shoulders. Then, closing her eyes, she turned her head away and clung to me in a sudden, unexpected caress, her cheek against my chest.

  I stood there, utterly motionless, lost in the magic of her touch, my arms spread wide out, not daring to lock them around her. Somehow I sensed that by taking hold of Natasha I would risk her slipping away from me.

  After a while I whispered, “Natashinka?”

  She stepped back in surprise and said to me, “Don’t call me that.”

  I asked, “Why not?”

  And she said, “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “Only Ma calls me Natashinka. It moves me, and it does so in a special way. It’s intimate. So I’m not ready for someone else—someone I barely know, and who is yet to gain my trust—to call me that.”

  “Today you’re more careful than you used to be about me, and I think it’s because of your Mama, what she thinks of me.”

  “You mustn’t judge her.”

  “It’s the other way around. She’s judging me, judging my skills as well as my dream of becoming a writer.”

  “Ah,” said Natasha, waving her hand. “Don’t you mind that.”

  To which I said, “Can’t help it. I do.”

  “Pa taught me how to play the piano. And Ma, she taught me never to be satisfied with how I do it. It’s what she does.”

  I fell silent, which made her add, “If not for her, I wouldn’t be searching for a fuller, more truthful expression of the notes.”

  “I shouldn’t say anything,” I muttered, “I know I shouldn’t. But the way she meddles in my affairs, it isn’t right.”

  “Please don’t say that about her, Lenny. She simply wants to protect me.”

  “Not by violating me, us, and what I wrote to you! It was meant for your eyes only. I wasn’t excepting someone else to open my letters and read them, let alone offer a literary critique!”

  “I don’t think she did it,” said Natasha, and I noticed her casting a glance at the old woman, who started pacing impatiently back and forth and checking her watch.

  “Then how, how d’you explain the way all those letters disappeared, both yours and mine?”

  “You had no way of knowing this, Lenny, but when we lost our home, there was a big confusion, especially when we started to move from one hotel to another.”

  “What?” I cried. “You lost your house?”

  She turned away. In profile, her lashes could be seen fluttering over a tear.

  “We tried to keep up with my performance schedule,” she said, “but without having a base, somewhere to call home, it was hard. So for a time, Ma neglected to ask the post office to hold our mail for us. I’m not sure why you didn’t get my letters, but as for yours, they may have gotten lost in the shuffle, before she had a chance to sort things out.”

  “But I don’t understand, how—”

  “Not now. Ma is waiting for me. I have to go.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll tell you about all that happened, later.”

  “Later, when?”

  “I have a free night tomorrow, no performances,” she said, walking away. “Shall we meet here, same time?”

  By now she was heading to the elevators. Below the hem of her wool coat, a ribbon of cherry red suggested the color of the dress. It was twirling, rolling about her with each footfall.

  I matched my step to hers and softly I said, “We shall, Natashinka.”

  ❋

  That night, back in my father’s apartment, I took his white shirt off my back and peered into the darkness through the window, catching sight of myself. A reflection of me floated there, over the twinkling lights of the city. I closed my eyes and imagined myself flying. Then I imagined Natasha by my side, swifter than the wind.

  No longer was I in the grip of loneliness. It had vanished, letting me welcome an unfamiliar mood. Boy, was I happy!

  Yes, I was elated! Dancing like a
madman around my mattress, which was the only thing here not yet sold, I asked myself what to do about the one problem I had, which was this: there were too many hours between now and the next evening, too many minutes to count down. I simply couldn’t wait for my date.

  Tomorrow, I whispered. Tomorrow.

  Replaying in my mind what Natasha had told me I started parsing every sentence, examining every part in it this way and that, discovering new meanings in every turn of expression, every word. Again and again I heard her voice, saying, “When we lost our home, there was a big confusion...”

  I recalled my visit to Summit, where she had lived then. Her house had been richly decorated and yet, there had been something about it that made it look not only in disrepair but also about to be deserted. The floor, covered with dust. The iron chandelier, missing half its light bulbs. Only now did I understand the reason for all that neglect.

  As a result of her Pa’s gambling habit, there must have been debts to pay and no money with which to do it. Then came the bills for his medical exams, and months later, his funeral.

  Natasha must have known all along that she and her Ma would not remain there for long. They had been disengaging themselves from that place, while living there in a state of goodbye.

  So now—despite her growing fame as a performer—she was homeless. Could anyone be successful and at the same time, poor? It seemed like a contradiction, something I had to work hard to resolve. With a shrug I decided that fact might be stranger than fiction.

  I wondered, what happened to all that heavy furniture? The piano The nicknacks? The rug? The pictures hanging over the mantle? How much of what they used to own had they salvaged? How much had they managed to carry away? Would these objects, these mementos of their days of grandeur, become a burden?

  And now that they moved from one hotel to another, where would they store what they wanted to keep?

  I asked myself, had the playing field between Natasha and me been leveled because of her misfortune? For months I had been saving most of my salary and could, perhaps, offer some help, once I figured out what she needed.

  All of a sudden I sensed that there was a possibility, a real, practical possibility of contact between us. I relished the notion that if—by some miracle—she would accept my offer of support, her dear Mama would have to adjust. She would hate having to be on her best behavior with me, which would frustrate her. That in itself put an amused smile on my lips, giving me a jolt of cruel pleasure. Forced by gratitude, the old woman would have to realize, once and for all, that she could no longer afford to spite me. No more would she glare me down, muttering, “You again.”

  And as for Natasha, perhaps she was no longer as unreachable as she used to be. I sat down on the mattress, and intoxicated with hope I listened to the lullaby, coming faintly through the wall, as the neighbor sang her baby to sleep.

  Twinkle, twinkle little star

  How I wonder what you are

  Up above the world so high

  Like a diamond in the sky

  The words were old. They were first published in 1806 by Jane Taylor in Rhymes of the Nursery and sung to the tune of the french melody dating back to 1761. But there was something about them that held its power over me. To me, that star was none other than Natasha.

  It was late. I looked around me. With the exception of the mattress, the apartment was empty. There was little left for me here. Up to now I had been planning to return to duty oversees as soon as things here were in order, which at last they were, but now I had a sudden change of heart. Maybe I could delay going back. After all, my leave would not expire for one more month. The story of my love was about to happen.

  War could wait.

  I looked at the walls that surrounded me, forming a blank shell of my past. Right here, next to the light switch, were dark smudges, layering one fingerprint upon another. I wondered, which ones were left by my father, which by me, reaching up high, sometime back in my childhood, to turn on the light?

  And there, opposite me, my parent’s wedding picture used to hang. In its place, a faint rectangle started to appear, as the wall paint all around it had darkened over the years. Everywhere I turned there were blank rectangles, marking the boundaries of missing picture frames, of old memories.

  I imagined Natasha, back in Summit, New Jersey, casting a last glance at what used to be her place. The change I was undergoing was something she must have experienced not so long ago. For her—and for me, too—it was farewell to safety, farewell to what used to be home.

  Make it One for the Heartbreak

  Chapter 17

  I had been paying no attention to my appearance lately, but in anticipation of tonight’s date I could not afford to look like a slob. I had to prepare myself, so as to make the best possible impression on my girl. Aiming for a chance at a future with her, this I knew: together, we would be invincible. She would complete me.

  Having lost my father I felt a void in me and yearned to fill it by starting a new family. This hope depended, first and foremost, on a good shave.

  I set my shaving tools next to the sink: my badger brush, a bottle of Aqua Velva, and my cut throat razor.

  Unfolded a small towel I soaked it in steaming hot water and pressed it against my face for a minute. Then I lifted the brush, its bristles tipped with silver, and used it to apply shaving cream to my chin. Around and around it swirled until the lather had formed into stiff peaks. I paused briefly to smile at my reflection, thinking that with that white, fluffy beard, it looked nothing like me. If Natasha could see me now, she would be smiling too.

  I imagined us months, even years from now, a married couple repeating the same ritual every morning. It would never get old. She would be stretching my skin between her long, delicate fingers, the fingers of a pianist, until it was as tight as a drum. I would close my eyes, giving myself up to her.

  She would angle the blade to my face and go through the first pass, traveling along the grain, shaving the stubble with short, rhythmic strokes, and finishing it off with long ones.

  Then she would go through the final pass—the more dangerous one, when most accidents occur—this time, traveling against the grain.

  I splashed some aftershave on my skin. On second thought I figured it might be a bit much. She might hate the smell. So I washed it off with soap and water, rubbing my face vigorously to make sure there was not a trace of it left, only to splash it all over again, just in case I was wrong. Yes, she might like it. No, perhaps not.

  Oh God! So many hours to wait!

  Next on my list was taking care of my father’s shirt so it would feel fresh for tonight. I had washed it early that morning and hung it to dry on a hanger. Now I asked the next-door neighbor, a matronly, stout woman, to let me borrow her ironing board. There I stood, half-naked, squirting drops of water onto the collar, listening to them hiss and fizzle as I pressed the hot iron all the way around so as to loosen the bonds in the cotton fibers. There, no more wrinkles! The fabric straightened under my pressure and I knew it would hold its shape as it cooled.

  All dressed up for my date I returned the board and asked the neighbor for the last item on my list, namely, recommendations for restaurants in the city. The one that stood out from the rest of them was a little brick saloon on Third Avenue that had opened its doors as far back as 1884.

  “It’s a great little place,” said my neighbor. “And it has its own little quirks.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as the human leg bones over the door.”

  “Really?” I asked, wondering if Natasha would appreciate such a morbid object, fearing that this in itself might ruin the promise of a romantic evening.

  “Really,” she said. “I think it’s an Irish talisman of luck.”

  “Yes,” I said, mostly to myself. “That’s what I need, tonight of all nights. Luck!”

  ❋

  On the spur of the moment I decided to check out the restaurant ahead of time, just before picking up m
y girl. I grabbed my leather jacket and hopped aboard the Third Avenue El, an elevated railway in Manhatten and the Bronx, which was to remain in use until the Second Avenue Subway was built to replace it. Not so long ago, the Third Avenue Elevated Noise Abatement Committee, which consisted of men in the real estate business, claimed that the noise from the El constituted a menace to health, comfort and peaceable home life. I could not disagree with them more, especially on this particular, glorious day. The clinking and clanking of the train over the iron tracks was music to my ears.

  Arriving at the corner of East 55th street and Third Avenue I recognized the building at once. It’s name was designed to look like a signature of its original founder, P.G. Clarke’s, drawn diagonally over a squiggly underline, using a fluid, white brushstroke that ran across the red bricks. Somehow it gave the place a personal touch.

  Once inside I found myself ensconced in a vintage, old school atmosphere. The jukebox, which was coin-operated, played poignant love songs. The bar was separated from the dining room, to control the level of noise. Confident that Natasha would like this place for its classic New York feel I made reservations for us and turned to leave.

  It was then that someone clapped me over the shoulder. He was a short, pudgy fellow who did not merit a second look, and even the first look was one too many, as the best part of him was a crumpled business suit, one that must have seen better days, sometime years ago.

  Noting that I was not one of the regulars, he pointed out that there were little buttons in the walls from the prohibition era, to warn pub-goers that the police were on their way to bust them.

  His voice rang familiar, but I could not be sure where I had met him until he talked again.

  Raising his eyes to me, he uttered a cry of surprise. “Oh,” he said, “don’t I know you?”

  To which I said, “Do you?”