The winter wind that wrapped us in a chill
And forged us into one
The song was perfect for evoking the feel of last night’s date with Natasha. It filled me with joy, but also with worry: I cared deeply about her and could not bear the thought of her moving from one place to another, like a gypsy.
With all my heart I hoped that she would agree to move into my father’s apartment and make it her home. But what if she would refuse? Then, in all probability, I would lose contact with her upon my return to London. I feared this outcome. I dreaded the moment when our story would be cut off.
To move things along in the right direction I spent the entire morning preparing the place for the possibility of handing over the keys to her. First I used a large sponge and a solution of water mixed with a few drops of dishwashing liquid to remove dust and grease. Then I taped the trim with masking tape and used the roller, which was an ingenious painting device, invented only last year.
And a strange thing happened while I was rolling paint over the walls: with every stroke I felt as if I were whitewashing the traces of my family, of guests and neighbors who had visited us during holidays, birthdays, parties, even wakes. The fingerprints all of them had left behind were now lost to sight. I felt as if it were my own shadow that I was blotting out, my own existence.
No longer did I belong here.
And I asked myself: moving on, how would I preserve the past? Clearly I could not rely on physical mementos, on objects and houses, to remain in place so they could hint at history. What would help me recall events in my life and in the lives of others?
Perhaps I could put pen to paper and capture some of the stories I had heard. Then, these stories would live forever. The characters would leap from my mind onto the paper, and from there—into the mind of readers everywhere.
Where would I start? With something that happened in my early childhood? Or else, something that happened this year? After all, these last months turned out to be simply amazing. I was lucky, and so grateful, to come across such remarkable characters. How would I go about depicting them?
For some time now I had a vague wish to become an author, but had no real experience with the craft of writing. After all I had never written a story, never felt the urge to do so, until now.
With paint-stained fingers I opened my little notebook, only to find out that even a blank page could have an expression. This one, to me, seemed rather intimidating.
The first idea that came to mind was to write about my girl. I started a sentence and immediately stopped. This story had no end and no middle either. It would be hard for me to develop it, having only a beginning.
Besides, Natasha was too close to me, close to my heart. My passion for her blinded me. I needed someone else to write about, someone I could examine at some distance, so as to describe him in an objective manner, seeing into his heart and guts, the way I believed a writer would do.
My next idea was to write the story of one of the fellow marines I had come to know, like Ryan. Our conversations gave me plenty of material, and whatever details I missed I could fill in from my own experience. One thing that intrigued me about him was the contrast between the way he saw himself and the way his girlfriend, Lana, saw him. It was a conflict in the making, wrapped up in the guise of an affair.
I remembered him telling me, “So many cute babes here, and they all adore us and want to have a little chat, which is a bit hard to understand, because they speak with that fascinating, mind-bending foreign accent, which makes me forget the name of my girlfriend back home.”
And I recalled Lana saying, “At the time he seemed like a shy, inexperienced young fellow, no, not his boss but Ryan himself, which may surprise you, because I can tell—looking at the pictures he has sent me from London—that nowadays he seems to be carrying on, with great confidence as well as vigor, with the ladies.”
It was then that I came up with the brilliant idea of writing their story, with shades of deceit on her part and infidelity on his. I would develop it in stark contrast to our love.
Having worked all this in my mind, the first sentence came to me with surprising ease:
Ryan was first introduced to Lana at his boss’s house, where he and a few other guests had to stand around waiting for dinner, with nothing but some dry nibbles to help pass the time, and nothing but the weather to keep the conversation afloat—until a full hour later, when she finally arrived.6
I could easily describe how my character would become infatuated with Lana. After all, I was a man in love:
He was seated at the table next to her, and noticed her long, wavy hair. It had blond streaks, and smelled good. The perfume was very subtle—just enough to put him under a spell.
Then I asked myself if Ryan would object to me writing about him. Would I be invading his privacy by doing so? Should I change the name of my character to protect the innocent? I decided against it, at least for now. After all, if you could not annoy somebody, there was little point in writing.
Her wrist was so close to his that he could sense her warmth through the fabric of her blouse, and it set him afire. By the end of the main course he managed to ask her, with a sudden catch in his voice, to pass the butter. The effort left him speechless, and so he thanked her in his own manner, with a slight nod but without meeting her eyes.
All of a sudden I discovered that there was little time to complete the story. I had to hurry, remove the masking tape from the trim, place the paint bucket and painting tools in storage, finish cleaning up the apartment, wash the stains of both paint and ink from my fingers, and get ready for my date.
My last task was to carry the old mattress out into the street. I would not be sleeping in this place tonight. Uncle Shmeel had already agreed to let me use his sofa.
I shined my shoes, dressed up and opened the door to leave, but felt compelled to come back in and cast a last look. While at it I gave in to temptation and scribbled one more paragraph in my story. In it I began to give my character some of my own traits, such as the love of music. I figured it would help me breathe life into him.
And even though his name on paper was still Ryan I began to think I should change it. He was a creature born out of my own mind, and needed a name that reflected it.
Perhaps, Leonard.
I crossed out a few words, rearranged a couple of sentences, and read the paragraph out loud, so I might hear the sound of it:
Leonard discovered that—just like him—she loved Opera. With a sudden blush, Lana told him that she could appreciate the purity of vocal tone. She said she adored Puccini and could even describe, in a heavy Russian accent, several passages from the greatest Italian operas written by him. Her cheeks were so red, so rosy! She talked about Tosca, about La Boheme, and by the time she recited a few notes from Madama Butterfly, Leonard knew he had to have this woman, even though the color of her eyes was still a mystery to him.
The song started playing again. This would be the last time I would hear the radio here, on the other side of the wall. I left the place, thinking, Manhattan, here I come!
I Pine for You, Day and Night
Chapter 20
Later that evening I entered the reception area of the Wellington Hotel with a craving that could not be satiated, at least not yet. In my hands I carried a little box of chocolates, which I had bought for my girl on a whim, an hour earlier at Altmann & Kühne.
Established two years ago at Fifth Avenue, the confectionery had recently been purchased by an American investor, but continued operating under the Austrian brand, which was highly prestigious. Natasha would surely recognize it and delight in the quality of its handmade chocolates and bonbons.
Love was in the air. I sensed it all around me. A record was spinning around on the gramophone, releasing one touching note after another, making me ache with desire.
Dark or light, deep in this heart of mine
There’s a crazy beat pounding ’cause oh, just for you I pine
; And its agony won’t be through
Till you let me give myself, give all of me to you
I pine for you, dark or light
At the far end, the elevator doors opened. I thought of dashing over there to surprise Natasha. Instead I ended up taking a step back, because out came her Mama.
Mrs. Horowitz locked eyes with me at once, and it took all my concentration not to take another step back.
She clomped in my direction, then plonked herself down on the oversized couch that stood on one side of the elegant rug. Waving her hand at me in a commanding gesture, she pointed at the matching couch that stood on the opposite side.
“You,” she said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
“Where’s Natasha?” I asked.
“She’ll be down shortly,” said her Ma. “Now sit.”
I did.
Narrowing her eyes, she leaned over to ask, “What’s that thing you’re holding?”
I rose to my feet and passed the box to her. Wrapped in beautiful paper, it was an artwork in its own right, designed to look like a miniature chest of drawers, in which sweets were stored.
The women licked her colorless, wrinkled lips, and turned the thing over and over, examining it carefully under the lights of the huge chandelier. At last she returned the box to me, somewhat unwillingly, as if she hated to part with it.
“So,” she said. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you.”
I looked at her in surprise.
“Really, Mrs. Horowitz?”
“I said, Maybe.”
“Never mind about me. Have you given any thought to my offer? Natasha has told you about it, hasn’t she?”
“She has, but I’d like to hear it directly from you.”
“Take it as an invitation: the two of you can move into my father’s apartment, as soon as you like, and at no expense to you, make it your new home.”
Leaning forward on her elbow and cupping all three of her chins in her hand, the old woman studied me at great length. At last she said, “It’s more generous than anyone can imagine, to the point that it makes me wonder.”
“About what?”
“About your wisdom, naturally! Because if you’re clever then I must worry about your intentions, and if you’re not, then I must worry why Natasha would fall in love with such a nincompoop. Either way I must protect her.”
“Protect her you must, and the best way to do it is by making sure she is in a safe place.”
She kept looking at me searchingly over the rim of her glasses, as if she could not put full trust in the optical lenses when it came to studying an unusual scientific specimen such as me.
Growing tired of it I said. “Well? Don’t make me beg. Will you accept my offer?”
“Maybe,” she said a third time, still reluctant to commit.
“I see,” said I. “This is a definite possibility.”
“What I can say at this point is this: I‘m somewhat more willing than before to get to know you, young man, not only because of this chocolate box, and not only because of your offer, but most of all because—contrary to all expectations—you keep coming back, time and again.”
“So you respect how persistent I am?”
“More precisely, I hate it.”
To which I said, simply, “Mrs. Horowitz, I love your daughter.”
She raised an eyebrow, but avoided the temptation to poke fun at a poor suitor. Instead she turned her attention to practical matters.
“So now, let me understand in more detail,” she said. “The rent is paid?”
“For six months.”
“And the place is ready?”
“Yes. This morning I threw the old mattress away. It was the last thing there. And I painted the place. It’s clean and fresh.”
In a flash, I imagined the fancy, carved furniture Mrs. Horowitz would acquire anew to bring in, all those Russian accents and the gilded frames and knickknacks, all of which would create a mini-palace of sorts. At the thought of it, a smile escaped my lips.
In turn, she gave me a severe look.
“One thing must be clear between us,” she said, wagging a finger at me. “This is not to be treated as a handout. If we take you on your offer, it’s going to be nothing more than a business arrangement.”
“Of course, Mrs. Horowitz.”
“I’m going to pay you back every penny, and that’s a promise you can take to the bank.”
“No need for formalities, Mrs. Horowitz.”
“We’re going to treat this not as a favor, but as a loan. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes. We do.”
“When will you vacate the premises?”
“I already did. And I’ve brought the key with me, Mrs. Horowitz. You can have it.”
I fumbled in my pocket, took out the key, and presented it to her. She took it. And as it exchanged hands, Natasha came out of the elevator. She was wearing a scarlet sweater blouse with a soft bow at the neck, and a black skirt that played out her delicate curves.
At once, the conversation changed its tone.
“Mama,” said the girl, as she approached. “Did Lenny tell you of his plans? After his military service, he’s going to become a writer!”
The old woman pursed her lips, but not before letting out a heartfelt sigh. “Oy Vey.”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s my dream. And it was inspired by something Natasha wrote to me, almost a year a go, in her first letter.”
“I did? Really?” asked the girl.
“Really. Don’t you remember?”
“No, what?”
“You said, ‘I enjoyed your stories and would love to read more of them. Your words touched something in me... You, Lenny, you should become a writer.’”
“Oh, I forgot about that. But I do remember your first letter.”
Before I could come clean about it and explain that it was the only one of my letters that was not written by me, but rather by my friend Aaron, Natasha added, “It was brilliant.”
I felt my face reddening as I said, “Brilliant it was.”
The old woman cut in. “Listen here, Dostoyevsky,” she said. “The only privilege of being a writer is a dubious one: you have the freedom to starve anywhere.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Mrs. Horowitz. I can make a living at it.”
She threw her hands up in the air. “Didn’t your father teach you anything? There’s something you must do before you start relying on your scribbles to make ends meet.”
“What’s that?”
“First and foremost you must acquire an education, which is to say, a professional degree, so that you’d be able to get a decent paying job, without which no self-respecting girl will seriously consider marrying you.”
She glanced at her daughter, while holding a hand up to prevent her from responding. Natasha said nothing. Instead she bit her lip.
Meanwhile, the old woman pressed on. “All those courses at the university, they’re not a complete waste of time, even if at present you may think they are. They’ll serve you well, not only to earn a living but also to sharpen your skills as a writer. You may learn a thing or two from them, young man.”
“Like what?”
“Like, when expressing thoughts, one should never generalize.”
I considered mentioning that she had just generalized about never doing so, but on second thought decided to think twice about it.
So I asked, “What else?”
And she said, “The passive voice is to be avoided.”
I took out my pocket notebook and wrote it down. “Just listening to you, Mrs. Horowitz, I’m getting better at my craft. Any more advice?”
“Yes. Avoid clichés like the plague.”
“I’m making a note of it.”
“Good,” she said. “Last but not least, avoid overuse of rhetorical questions. Know what I mean?”
“No, not exactly,” said I. “But one of these days I’ll figure it out, I think.”
The old woma
n leaned into her thick feet and with effort, got up.
“Now I have to go,” she said. “I have an appointment with the stage manager. There are some urgent negotiations that need to be finalized before Natasha’s next performance. Let me leave you with one last thought.”
Natasha and I looked at each other, then at her.
“Well?” I said. “What is it?”
Mrs. Horowitz answered by asking, “You’re going back to London in less than a month, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “I have to. My leave is about to expire.”
“And there’s a war going on there, isn’t there, right?”
“There is, all over Europe.”
“Don’t I know it. It’s been a long time, ever since the Battle of France, since we got a letter from my nieces, the Rosenblatt sisters. Last I heard they were working in some nightclub in Paris. I hope nothing bad has happened to them.” She paused for a minute and went back to her line of questioning. “So, young man, casualties are mounting?”
“They are,” I said, not quite knowing where she was heading with all that.
“So,” she said, “in Heaven’s name, don’t get married.”
“Mama—”
“Mrs. Horowitz—”
“Hear me out,” she said, this time even more firmly than before. “The last thing I would wish for my daughter is to become a war widow, Heaven forbid. You wouldn’t want that for her either, young man, would you?”
I hung my head between my shoulders and shook it, No.
In a triumphant tone of voice, “Wait for the end of the war,” she told me. And to Natasha she said, “Wait for his safe return, will you?”
Natasha said nothing, and the old woman turned to go. “And by the way,” she said, this time to both of us, “the two of you are practically strangers. It won’t hurt to get to know each other, in the little time you have left, before jumping into marital bliss. Trust me, it’s not all that it’s cracked up to be.”
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