by Lily Tuck
Thanks to Maurice, I still knew the lyrics and I also knew the reason Malbrouk’s wife was waiting for him in vain:
Monsieur Malbrouk est mort,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine,
Monsieur Malbrouk est mort,
Est mort et enterré.
The reason, too, I sang to my children in French was I believed that anyone who might be listening to me—including my then husband—knew neither French nor the songs and therefore would not know whether I was singing off-key, which chances are I was.
One of my favorite paintings is Rest During the Flight to Egypt, by Caravaggio. At the center of the picture, an angel, his back to the viewer, stands naked, except for a swirl of white cloth, his wings—wings as startlingly black as a crow’s wings—gracefully outstretched. The angel is playing the violin for the Holy Family as they rest. Sitting on the ground, an attentive but weary-looking Joseph is holding up the sheet music for the angel to sight read while, next to him, Mary is holding the baby Jesus in her arms and both are asleep. The painting speaks to the power of music. This notion is taken a step further when, once a year, a concert is held in the Palazzo Doria Pamphilj, where the Caravaggio painting hangs, and the notes on the sheet music Joseph holds up to the angel are played.
My second husband also had a good voice, which makes me wonder whether I am drawn to musical men—and aren’t opposites meant to attract? He loved to sing and he was clever at making up lyrics (in his heart, instead of being a lawyer, he wanted to write songs and be a lyricist). He loved Ira Gershwin, Richard Rodgers, Harold Arlen, Irving Berlin, he knew all the old show tunes by heart. The singer Carly Simon, too, was a favorite. Driving in the car, with his children, they all knew the words to her songs. Together they sang so well that, momentarily silenced and excluded, I was envious of them—of their talent and of their happiness at singing together.
When my husband died, I chose the music for his memorial service. For the prelude and the postlude, to be certain, I chose Bach; for hymns, I chose ones my husband had liked, “Love Divine” and “Jerusalem”; for myself, I chose Henry Purcell’s Music for the Funeral of Queen Mary, the last part, the canzona, played by two trumpeters.
I spend the summers on an island in Maine and each summer, obsessively, I listen to a single CD: last summer it was Fabrizio De Andrè; the summer of 2006 it was Leonard Cohen; the summer of 2005 it was Mariza Nunes singing fado; the summer of 2004 it was the Pink Martini; K. D. Lang was in either 2003 or 2002, I forget; the year I did not listen to K. D. Lang, I listened to the soundtrack of Lars von Trier’s movie Breaking the Waves; the year before I listened to the Buena Vista Social Club. I am not a particularly sanguine person but when I listen to music, I can be transported. Also, I play the music as loud as I can and except for a bunch of seals, who at low tide lie not far away on an exposed reef, my nearest neighbor is a mile away. I listen to music at the end of the day, at sunset, and although my house faces east, I can watch the clouds turn from bright orange to pink and mauve, then purple streaked with gray—the colors reflecting on the water below them—and finally go dark; then, still to the sound of music, I can watch the moon rise.
The Riding Teacher
His obituary in the local paper said that Chingis was a quiet man who chose to live his life close to nature. The obituary also said that he was self-reliant and frugal and had built his house himself; that he carried water from a well; cooked on a woodstove and wasted nothing. He was a close observer of animals, especially of birds, and the birds, it said, came to eat out of his hand. The obituary also went on to say how he had once been a superb horseman and that he had founded a well-attended riding academy. He was born in 1925 in the Caucasus, he had never married nor did he have any known living relatives and it was a neighbor, who looked in on him from time to time and did some of his shopping, who discovered him—dead several days apparently, and the cause of death a heart attack most probably. The obituary concluded by saying that this quiet, gentle and reclusive man was a direct descendant of Genghis Khan.
Annette, a geneticist, now living in the Midwest and working for a pharmaceutical company, would never have seen the obituary except for the fact that she subscribes to a service on her computer that alerts her to any mention of the name “Genghis Khan.” Her current research is based on a claim that 8 percent of the men living in the former Mongol empire, which translates into roughly sixteen million men, carry nearly identical Y chromosomes. Since, as Annette knows, the Y chromosome is passed on as a chunk of DNA from father to son, except for random mutations, it basically remains unchanged through generations and these random mutations, which occur naturally and are harmless, are called markers. Once these markers have been identified, Annette also knows, they must be traced back in time to the point at which they first occurred, thus determining the precise lineage of descent—as in the case of Genghis Khan, nearly a thousand years ago. Natural selection plays the dominant role in patterns of genetic variation and human population diversity, but in Genghis Khan’s case, Annette is certain that the genetic mutations that have occurred are the result of the unique conditions—rape and slaughter—on which the Mongol empire was founded. However, to prove this, Annette must first have access to Genghis Khan’s DNA or to the DNA of one of his male descendants.
All this time, Annette thinks, and she had no idea—nor had Lena—that Chingis was related to Genghis Khan. In fact, now that she is thinking about it, she remembers how, behind his ramrod-straight back, because he was so stern, so uncompromising, they had called him Genghis. And funny, too, how until now she had never made the connection—Chingis and Genghis are one and the same name. A strange irony, she thinks, but that is not exactly the right term for it. Coincidence is more apt, yet that is not quite right either. Annette settles for surprising and for looking back.
Two horse-crazy little girls, she and Lena were. She has a distinct picture of them at age nine or ten, galloping round and round on their parents’ suburban lawns—they lived next door to each other—on their imaginary horses. Annette’s horse was an Appaloosa, Lena’s a more elegant five-gaited palomino. “Whoa, whoa,” the girls said to themselves, pulling on the imaginary reins. “Whoa, there” as they slowed down to a trot. Later, they began to ride in earnest. First they rode at a local farm owned by two lesbians, Jill and Maureen, who boarded horses. Jill was an angry redhead—angry at the president of the country for raising taxes, angry at the postman for not delivering the mail on time, angry at Annette for not mucking out a stall properly. In addition to teaching the girls how to ride, Jill taught them how to care for horses, feed them, clean their tack, how, even, to shoe them. Annette can still see Jill, dressed in her heavy leather apron, holding a horse’s leg firmly between her own, paring down the hoof with a knife that looked like a little scythe—as easy as trimming fingernails, Jill said, also pointing out the delicate frog inside the hoof. Maureen was pale and anorexic; she looked unwell and she rarely came outside. Annette could see her silhouette, her head bent, reading perhaps, through a window. Annette no longer remembers what happened in the end. Maureen may have died and Jill may have sold the farm and moved away. In any case, the two girls had already begun riding with Chingis.
Strange to think of him as old. And strange, too, that he never married. Or perhaps not so strange. What was the Russian saying she had once heard? A bachelor’s life is a good life but he has a dog’s death as no one is there to grieve for him, while a married man leads a dog’s life but his death is pleasant as he is surrounded by his loved ones. Probably true for Chingis as well. Poor Chingis. He was so handsome, tall, dark, with almost impossibly high cheekbones and slightly slanted eyes—an adaptive advantage no doubt against the Siberian sleet and snow that harked back to his Mongol heritage—and always impeccably dressed in his khaki shirt and tie, jodhpurs, polished black riding boots and the captain’s cap he wore. Unfailingly polite and correct to people, horses, dogs—some might
have said humorless as well until one got to know him better—and remote, except, Annette imagines, to Lena.
Growing up, Annette and Lena spent almost every day on weekends and in summers—except for the one Lena and her family went to Greece and part of another when Annette had an emergency appendectomy—at Chingis’s riding stable. They learned to jump, they learned a little dressage, they learned to ride green horses that bucked and shied. Tirelessly, Annette and Lena worked them in the ring—circling, changing leads, doing figure eights. Coordinated and supple, Lena was the more relaxed and, perhaps, the more fearless rider, while Annette was the more elegant rider.
They also went on long rides in what was then still open country, past cornfields and into cool woods of spreading beeches; they crossed clear streams, often pausing to let the horses drink. One time, on a particularly hot day, Annette and Lena tied up their horses and, taking off their clothes, went for a swim. When they looked up they saw Chingis who, on his own—or perhaps he had followed them—had ridden up to the bank of the stream. “I can either take your clothes and you will have to ride back naked,” he teased them, laughing, “or I can take the horses and you will have to walk back—a long hot walk.”
“I’ll ride naked,” Lena said.
More cautious, Annette said she preferred to walk.
Another time, Annette was cantering on a young mare when the mare put her foot in a gopher hole and fell. Annette went down underneath her, her foot caught in the stirrup. The mare got up before Annette could free her foot and by the time Chingis caught the mare by the reins, the mare was dragging Annette on the ground. Jumping off his horse, Chingis quickly freed Annette’s foot from the stirrup. Then, leaning down, his face pale, he asked, “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so.” Annette shook her head.
Holding both horses’s reins in one hand, Chingis helped Annette to her feet. He retrieved her hard hat, which had come off, brushed the dirt off her and watched as she put the hat back on. “Are you okay?” he asked again.
Not sure, Annette nodded. His concern, more than the fall, brought sudden tears to her eyes.
Chingis smiled, relieved. Then without another word, he gave Annette a leg up and she was back in the saddle on top of the fidgety mare.
Although himself a great rider, Genghis Khan’s death was caused by a fall from a horse. He died a few days later, probably from the internal injuries he sustained from the fall. His body was brought back in a cart to his birthplace near Ulan Bator in Mongolia. By then, 1227, his empire extended across Asia, from the Pacific Ocean to the Caspian Sea. According to Genghis Khan’s wishes, his death had to be kept secret. Thus, anyone unlucky enough to meet the funeral procession along the way was killed—innocent little children, pregnant women, old people, it made no difference who they were. Once Genghis Khan was buried, a herd of horses was made to gallop back and forth over the grave site in order to cover it up and hide any trace of it. A forest of trees was then planted in the area and soldiers were stationed there for several years and until the trees had grown sufficiently tall to completely conceal the actual spot. These strategies were so successful that, to this day, no one knows where Genghis Khan is buried.
Rarely did Chingis talk about his family. His father, he let slip once, had been killed by the Bolsheviks; his mother had died a few years after she and Chingis settled in America. How? When? To each other, Annette and Lena made up stories: how his father was brutally hacked to pieces by a disorderly band of Reds; how Chingis and his mother, a beautiful princess, escaped from Russia.
“His mother, “ Lena told Annette, “wore a dress with pearl buttons down the front and as she and Chingis fled from the Bolsheviks, she was forced to give a pearl button to each person who had helped them.”
More literal-minded, Annette shook her head. “You mean by the time Chingis and his mother reached America, her dress was undone?”
They speculated about his age—Chingis must be in his midthirties—his habits—he loved opera he once told them and he read a lot. Who were his favorite authors? Dickens? Eliot? Trollope? the Russian writers? Turgenev? Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy?
“Dostoyevsky!” Lena was ready to bet. “He’s so dark,” she said.
But mostly Annette and Lena speculated about his love life. They ran into him at the local movie theater one night—or rather they happened to sit several rows behind Chingis and a blonde woman. The woman had her hair up in a French twist and she wore a shawl—it looked like cashmere—over her shoulders. To Annette and Lena, she seemed sophisticated and probably she was from the city. Chingis had his arm around the back of the seat and it was difficult to tell, in the dark, if his arm was touching the woman’s shoulders. They were also sharing a bag of popcorn, which surprised Annette and Lena—popcorn was so plebeian—yet occasionally their fingers must have touched inside the bag. Occasionally, too, during the movie, Chingis bent his head toward the woman and said something that made her laugh. The movie was a comedy but Annette and Lena hardly watched it.
Afterward, Annette and Lena debated whether they should mention seeing him.
“We could say, ‘How did you like the movie, Chingis?’” Annette suggested.
“Or we could say, ‘Who was the blonde babe you were with at the movies, Chingis?’” Lena said.
When they next saw Chingis, Annette and Lena said nothing.
Lena’s parents were Greek and she had inherited their Mediterranean olive complexion and dark, thick curly hair. Her eyebrows, too, were thick and black, nearly meeting in the middle. A little scar ran through one eyebrow and the hairs there had turned white, which added a slight but not unappealing distraction to her face. She had a small Byzantine nose that came straight down from her brow, large dark eyes and a wide mouth. She laughed a lot and her teeth were startlingly straight and white. She was small; her body strong and compact—she could have been a gymnast. Annette was tall, blonde, first scrawny then thin—very different from Lena.
Genghis Khan began his conquests by uniting the disparate Mongol tribes—the Merkits, Naimans, Kerats, Tatars, Uyghurs—and establishing a single military force under his leadership. He was a brilliant and charismatic chieftain as well as a violent and cruel one. His success was attributed to his extensive network of spies and the psychological impact caused by his methods—the total destructions of cities, the murder and rape of its citizens. He is reported to have once boasted: “The greatest happiness is to vanquish your enemies, to chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth, to see those dear to them bathed in tears, to clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters.” Fear was his most useful tactic. He was also known never to shirk personal danger or hardship. On the war trail, along with his fellow soldiers, Genghis slept and ate as they did, subsisting on yak milk and, occasionally, to fortify himself, opening up a horse’s vein and drinking the blood.
Chingis’s house was across the street from the stables. A small, white two-story shingle house with a gable roof. On the few occasions Annette had been inside—to fetch something, to make a phone call—the house was always tidy. Immaculate. The kitchen, too. Shiny copper pots and pans hung from hooks above the stove; the dish towels and pot holders were neatly folded on the counter; a glass, a dish or a fork left to dry in the rack was the only visible sign that someone might have eaten there. Neatly stacked books and records and an old-fashioned bulky record player filled the living room; the sofa and chairs were covered with old horse quilts and blankets—protection no doubt against the two or three dogs who invariably shared the house. In the front hall, along the wall, were framed photographs of Chingis’s family and Annette always paused to look at Chingis’s father in riding breeches and boots, wearing a tall fur hat and holding a whip; in another photo, Chingis’s father was on horseback, jumping onto what looked to be the roof of a house; a photograph of his mother showed a handsome, dark-haired woman, wearing an elaborate headdre
ss. There was one photo of Chingis in his army uniform looking young and untroubled. Although Annette never went so far as to go upstairs in Chingis’s house—she was tempted but never quite dared—nowhere was there any sign, as far as she could tell, of a “blonde babe.”
In addition to the dogs—mixed breeds, strays or ones from the local pound—Chingis kept chickens. The chickens were a rare breed from the Far East and they had long glossy, black tail feathers and were not friendly. In particular, the rooster, who had several spurs on each leg and who made as if to attack if anyone approached the coop. According to Chingis, the most unusual thing about the rooster was that he was said to have black bones. Also he could fly. Chingis was inordinately proud of his chickens and although they rarely laid eggs, he made a big show of giving an egg away if one did.
The eggs were small and nasty. They had specks of blood in them—the chick embryo—and Lena and Annette, rather than bring them home or eat them, threw the eggs out.
But perhaps because chickens were ultimately connected to food and to cooking, a predominantly female occupation, it was a subject Annette felt free to joke with him about.
“So, Chingis,” she asked, “how many eggs did you get this week? Enough for an omelette?”
Chingis, too, did not mind the banter and responded in kind, “Not an omelette, Annette—a soufflé.”
The summer Annette and Lena graduated from high school, and the summer before they each were going to go away to college, to different colleges—Annette already knew she wanted to study medicine, unsure Lena was going to a liberal arts college—was also the summer that Annette got appendicitis. Worse, her appendix burst and she got peritonitis. According to the doctor, Annette easily could have died. As a result, she had to spend a month recuperating and could not ride. Toward the end of the month, when she felt nearly well, Annette would drive to the stable in the morning with Lena and help out with some of the chores. She brought in the horses from the pasture, she fed and watered them, she helped saddle them up for the young riders taking lessons. All the same, Annette sensed that things had changed. Both Lena and Chingis—although initially pleased to see her recovered and grateful for her help—seemed oblivious of her. They joked and were noisy. They acted foolish, almost. Especially Chingis. Inside a horses’s stall, Annette caught him humming a tune.
