She does not understand me, and never will.
For weeks now I cannot stop thinking of Pa and of his lost memory. I agonize over the manner of his death, because I should have done something, anything to ease it for him. I should have said goodbye or just held his hand. Instead I wasted the moment, and I can never bring it back to make it right, never. I spent it repeating over and over, hoping he would hear me, hoping desperately to be recognized, “It’s me, Pa! It’s Natasha!”
Ma says that grief must be held back, or else it will hinder me. She says the way to fight it is by getting back into my routine, just as I did at Juliard.
Is she right? In truth I have no idea.
Playing would be my tribute to him, she says, because it was Pa who taught me how to listen to music, how to let others hear it.
So that was my intention, to obey her. I never thought of changing my program, until it was my turn to step onstage.
It was then that I laid eyes on this soldier, this strikingly handsome man, whose shoulder was bulging out, for some reason, whose shirt looked lopsided because of it, and whose name I didn’t know.
Perhaps I never will.
His smile was irresistible. It made me melt inside. I loved the way he came after me, with no hesitation whatsoever, which amazed me. I am trained from childhood to reflect on every note, consider every interpretation, and measure every feeling by the precision of an inner metronome.
He’s different.
By instinct, this I know: he would complete me.
In his own way, which I found both crazy and adorable, he dashed onto the stage ahead of me, pretending to be my bugle boy, even though his instrument was made up of air.
Watching him I could set aside my anguish. In a blink, a weight was lifted off my shoulders. Oh, I could breathe! I could smile again! He brought laughter into my heart, light into my gloom.
And it was because of him—no, it was for him—that I broke the rules. On a whim I changed my plan and played something outside my regular repertoire. For him, and for all the soldiers there, some of whom may soon perish in battle, God Bless America.
And with that I gave him the best of me, the only way I knew how: through music.
At the sound of it Ma fainted.
She would never approve of him, never.
I know it.
Instead she would tell me I’m too naive and too vulnerable, and the best thing I could do is to learn to control myself.
Was she never young? Did she never feel this—this feeling that quickens my heart? It has no shape, no reason, and can be described by no other name but danger, and yet here I am, opening my arms to embrace it.
I am in awe of what is happening to me. I am scared of it and at the same time, I find myself elated.
Until Ma wakes up I have the night to myself, and it is magical.
I open the door and step out into the garden. Light rain is falling, and in each drop you can see a glint of moonlight. It is captured for an instant, and then, with a tinkle, released into a fine mist upon the dark, drenched soil.
Rising to my tiptoes I lift my hands up to the height of his shoulders. I imagine him there, in the drizzle. He’s playing his invisible bugle. I can almost hear it, trembling in the wind.
Faithful forever I promise to be. I will wait for him, wait till he puts down his instrument and takes hold of me.
He will be running his fingers down, all the way down to the small of my back, touching his lips to my ear, breathing his name, breathing mine.
Here I am, dancing with air.
Around and around we go.
I Will Help You Rise
Chapter 22
Over the years I read this entry in her diary—the only one Natasha allowed me to read—a thousand times, and usually it puts a smile on my lips, but oh, not now, not anymore. For some reason her words have taken on a different meaning, a darker one, which I sense now for the first time, in the context of her turn for the worse.
Holding the paper makes my hands tremble. I prefer to attribute it to my age, not to anguish.
The night has been long, and long have I been waiting for her to awaken, so I can prepare her. I need to ready both of us for that head X-ray exam, which until yesterday I have been reluctant to schedule. It will, I’m afraid, result in the dreaded diagnosis which neither she nor I want to hear. But at this point, what choice do I have? Her condition can no longer be ignored. It is time to find out the name of it.
Back to that page from her diary. After three decades the ink is faded, and the paper—yellowed and crinkly. I can read it still, mostly by touching the indentations and combining what I feel with what has already been committed to memory. I close my eyes to hear her, whispering out of the papery rustle.
I am in awe of what is happening to me. I am scared of it and at the same time, I find myself elated.
Being elated is something of the past for both of us. But like the way she used to be I find myself scared and in awe. Where we’re headed is yet unknown, except for one thing: her path and mine are just about to diverge.
So much has happened since the time we met, the time of our happiness. So many twists and turns during years of war and years of peace. We made promises to each other, promises that were bigger than what we could keep, which made us rise to our better selves, striving to fulfill them.
It also made for a lifelong struggle. She started out as a rising star, and I—a soldier. Her aspirations were different from mine, so we had to learn how to bridge our differences.
Some of our memories are full of joy. I bring them gently into mind. Others swoop out of nowhere to startle me.
And of all these moments, the ones that are dearest, most precious to me come from the very beginning. The first time I saw her. The first letter she wrote to me. Our first date. First kiss. The first time I made love to her.
And through it all, a great yearning.
Serving my military duty in Europe meant that for several years—from my departure in 1942 until my final return to the States in 1945, at the end of the war—there was an ocean separating us. But I had high hopes, back then. Even in her absence she was constantly in my thoughts, and I in hers. Not so now. I care for her, but at times I sense that she doesn’t even know who I am.
“I’m on your side,” I murmur to her, but she turns to the wall and I am unsure if my words can reach her.
It’s a new day: January 1st, 1970. The first rays of dawn break through the blinds. They stray gingerly into the room, crawl across the floor, and reach for the mattress as if in hesitation, careful not to touch her ankle, dangling from the bed, or the folds of the blanket, gathered around her chest.
Natasha is asleep by my side, her hair spread over my arm. I hold my breath, watching the shadow of her eyelashes flutter upon her cheeks. Where are her dreams taking her? She looks so beautiful, so peaceful. I have to stop myself from cuddling up to her, let alone allowing my passion to take over, because who knows what Natasha may do, thinking me a stranger.
She is not the only one confused: I am too, because even as I remind myself not to touch her, I can barely help myself. My body has a mind of its own. It compels me into arousal.
I stroke her skin, ever so tenderly, and I ache for her, because more than ever before, she is absent.
Until she opens her eyes I can make believe everything is going to be all right. Perhaps the change in her is still reversible. Perhaps there is some cure for it, or at least some treatment to stop it from worsening. It can happen this way, can’t it? With a little bit of luck she may heal, and then go back to teaching piano. Her students will all come back. So will the friends who have drifted off.
Until then it’s a rough time for me. I have to survive it all by myself. My son is distant, in every sense of the word. How that happened, I am yet to figure out. In my loneliness I feel so weary, so close to despair—but somehow find a way to pull myself together, simply because I must.
If I break down, what chance would s
he have?
To get a grip over myself I direct my thoughts elsewhere, to my craft. I think of writing about us, about this adventure called life. The few who may read it will surely complain about the story not having a happy end. Like them I wish for it. I pray with all my heart that it’ll happen. But even if doesn’t, here is what I have come to believe: perhaps the best anyone can hope for is to have a happy beginning.
I am grateful to have lived through so many good moments, so many memories to cherish.
Among other disappointments life dealt me was my failure to publish any of my stories—except one: Leonard and Lana.
Years ago Uncle Shmeel sent me a copy of the magazine where the story was printed. I wrote back to thank him and to say that it must have been beginner’s luck.
Then I shared the news with Natasha, expecting her to encourage me, to root for my success as a writer, but no! To my astonishment she hated the story, perhaps because it centered on another woman, and because—to add insult to injury—the hero carried my given name. In her mind I was covering up an affair to spare her feelings, and at the same time, revealing it to the world in a fancy literary disguise. No amount of explanation could ease her suspicion, which soured the taste of our love.
Such is the power of the written word.
One time she even addressed me by the name her Ma invented for me, using the same intonation, slighting me.
“Listen here, Dostoyevsky,” she said.
And I asked, “Can’t you forget about that awful story?”
“Should I?”
“Please do,” I pleaded. “Sorry I ever put pen to paper. Believe me, it was nothing but a scribble, an amateurish attempt at composition, which doesn’t mean there was ever an affair.” And thinking about my penmanship I added, “I was too young to know what I was doing.”
But Natasha took it as an excuse for infidelity. “Sure!” she said, with a sudden, green flash in her eyes. “If you cannot remember it, you don’t have to confess, do you.”
It irked me then. But now, looking forward, this I know: a day may come when I will be happy to hear her call me by that name, because it will signal some sort of recognition.
It will give me hope.
I wish I could lie here forever, by her side, but it’s time to get up. First I turn on the radio. A song is playing, and it is so beautiful, so poignant, such a fitting note to accentuate what I feel, to bring about a possible conclusion to the highs and lows of the music of us.
In times of sorrow, when you sigh
When tears well in your eyes
I will kiss them dry
I’m on your side
You’re not alone, no need to cry
Between us there is no divide
If you’re in trouble, if you stumble and fall
I will help you rise
If you happen to falter, if you crawl
I will help you rise
I put my pants on, go to the kitchen, fill a small pot with water and bring it to a boil for the eggs. Meanwhile I squeeze grapefruit juice into two glasses and wait for the two slices of bread to pop out of the toaster. I set two plates on the table, one on each side of the crystal vase. It is the same vase her Pa bought for her Mama to mark their anniversary a generation ago.
I had been too drained to think about it until last night, when on a whim I bought a bouquet of fresh flowers in lovely hues of white, pink, and purple. Why did I do it? Perhaps for old times’ sake. By now I have stopped hoping to surprise my wife with such frivolities, because she pays little attention, lately, to the things I do. So for no one in particular I stand over the thing, rearranging the orchids, spray roses, and Asiatic lilies as best I can, to create an overall shape of a dome.
And then—then, in a blink—I find myself startled by a footfall behind me. A heartbeat later I hear her voice, saying, “Lenny?”
I turn around to meet her eyes. My God, this morning they are not only lucid but also shining with joy.
In a gruff voice, choked, suddenly, with tears, I ask her, “What is it, dear?”
And she says, “Don’t forget.”
“What, Natashinka?”
“I love you.”
Spreading my arms open I stand there, speechless for a moment. Without a word she steps into them. We snuggle, my chin over her head. She presses it to my bare chest. I comb through her hair with my fingers. And once again, we are one.
Then she points at the vase.
“For you,” I say. “Looks like some old painting, doesn’t it?”
“Still life,” she whispers. “With memories.”
Then Natasha lifts her eyes, hanging them on my lips as if to demand something of me, something that has been on her mind for quite a while. Somehow I can guess it. She is anticipating an answer, which I cannot give.
Instead I kiss her. She embraces me but her eyes are troubled, and the question remains.
“Without the memories,” she asks, “is it still life?”
~ The End ~
This has been
The Music of Us
Volume I of the Still Life with Memories
by
Uvi Poznansky
First Chapter of Dancing with Air
Volume IV of Still Life with Memories
This was supposed to be the story of our love. I ached for Natasha from the moment she entered my life. As she performed at a concert for us soldiers in Camp Lejeune, her music conquered me. You might say it brought me to my knees even before she did.
Natasha was my muse, my inspiration, my reason for overcoming the toughest odds while I served on the European front. At the end of the Great War, I proposed to her and could not believe my good fortune: she said yes. With that naive sense of being invincible, which only the young possess, we looked forward to growing old together and to reflecting back on our memories.
The first thing that changed that was what happened when I came back to New York. I had to provide for her, so the promise I made to my father, to study at the university and get a professional degree, had to be set aside. My wife, her Mama, and I moved to the west coast, to a small place in Santa Monica, and for a while I could not find a job. Restless, my mind drifted back, over and again, to scenes of combat. It kept resurrecting ghosts, both the wounded and the dead.
In moments of doubt I held on to a scrap of paper—written by a soldier whose name I did not even know—which I had found in a trench in Omaha beach. It said, “Stay with me, God, the night is dark.”
That year, whenever Natasha played, all I heard was firearms, booming.
I thought myself afflicted, compelled to remember things I would rather forget, things I refused to share with anyone, not even her.
With all my heart, I admired Natasha—but even in love, being together ended up turning into somewhat of an illusion. She continued to perform. I changed jobs. Her engagements took her around the country and overseas. I took evening walks down to Santa Monica pier. There I stared at the horizon, imagining her entering the concert hall, sitting by the piano, nodding to strangers.
It was not until five years later, when our son was born, that I felt happy again.
And now, all these years later, this.
Only a month ago she told me, “I fear that one night it may happen, Lenny.”
And I said, “What d’you mean, dear?”
And she said, “I’ll slip away in my sleep and never wake up as me, and then—what? I have Ben, and he still needs me.”
I hesitated to mention, again, that our son had dropped out of school and left us, he no longer lived at home, and did it slip her mind—but decided to say nothing.
I can no longer deny what has, unfortunately, become all too clear, from the very beginning of 1970. Some devil in her makes Natasha forget, from time to time, not only where she placed her notes, not only how to play certain passages in them, and not only who it was that taught her music in her early years, but also her own name.
Natasha is tormented by confusion,
trying to separate herself from the enemy within. Should I help her fight it or else—to stop her from suffering—should I let her succumb?
Sometimes I think that for me, it would have been a great fortune to lose some of the memories. But for her it is a curse.
By the same measure it is, perhaps, a blessing not to be able to peer into the future. I don’t want to know, don’t want to think of it, but the threat is there, it persists: in a few years—maybe even a few months—there would be little left of our union, of us.
That is the moment I dread.
This winter it’s something new every day. Today at sunrise I find Natasha in the closet, which is crammed with dozens of her old, glamorous gowns. Having sneaked into it, she stands there wide-eyed and completely nude, shivering slightly in the morning chill.
A vein is pulsing on her breast. It’s blue, and so are the tips of her long, delicate fingers as she pulls a bunch of dresses down. Most of them slip off her arm, except for the slick, slivery dress, which she wore on her recital appearance in Paris, back in 1945, when both of us celebrated not only the victorious end of WWII but also our wedding.
Now, fascinated by the silky touch, she tries to put it on: first backwards, then inside out. In frustration, she drops the thing to the floor and starts thrashing around, kicking it, becoming entangled as fallen metal hangers clink furiously against each other. Her eyelashes flutter over her pale cheeks as she listens to the mad rhythm.
I turn on the bedside radio and rotate the knob this way and that, in an attempt to find something, anything that will distract her from that noise. Oh, how about this: a song is playing, and to the sound of it I find myself rolling back into the dent of her body on the sheets.
I hug you softly, I kiss you in your dream
A Touch of Passion (boxed set romance bundle) Page 17
