Meeting Luciano

by Anna Esaki-Smith

  The house was the biggest on the island and seemed as permanently fixed in our lives as a river or mountain. Even I could feel the tug of the house, knowing that part of my history was preserved, safe, under a roof in Japan. I wished something uncontrollable had happened to it. Being blasted by a tidal wave or collapsed by an earthquake were appropriately drastic scenarios for such a grand old home. To simply fall victim to a bulldozer and a backhoe seemed trivial, humiliating.

  The singers were coming soon, and although it was only late morning, the day already felt long and drawn out, as if it should be dark.

  My mother turned the water on and began rinsing the cups. “The buyer wants to tear the house down and put up a building,” she said. “My brother tried to hold out for someone who wants to live in the place, but no one did. It’s just too big.”

  She put a soapy hand to her chest. “Mi fa male qui,” she said.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It hurts here,” she replied.

  We stood there, water from the faucet running into the sink, until we heard voices, talking and laughing, on our front steps.

  BERNARD AND INGE arrived first, both dressed in crisp white linen shirts, creased blue jeans, and huarache sandals. Bernard pressed a satchel to his side as he leapt up our front stairs.

  “Good to see you, Hanako,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbing at his face before kissing my mother.

  “Thank you for coming,” my mother replied, smiling, her face white and matte, like unbaked bread.

  “Very warm today, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, I’m never one to get very hot,” my mother replied, showing the couple into the living room. “The renovation is going so well,” Inge said, sitting on the sofa. She rubbed her bare feet on the floor. “Lovely,” she exclaimed.

  Gisela and Lynne came a few minutes later, talking loudly as they walked up our driveway, their laughing oddly musical, as if following a score. The warm sweet scent of gardenias permeated the air as soon as Gisela came in the house.

  “Hot day!” Gisela exclaimed, collapsing into a damp heap on a chair.

  “Terrible,” my mother said, pouring tepid, sun-steeped tea into glasses, wiping drips off the coffee table with a white napkin.

  “I absolutely cannot sing under these conditions,” Bernard said, shaking his head as he opened his satchel and riffled through his music. “Hanako, would it be possible to have some air-conditioning?”

  “We’re having some problems with our electricity,” I said, looking at my mother.

  She smiled slightly, and smoothed her hair with her hand. “Unfortunately, we can’t use the air conditioner. But that shouldn’t prevent us from singing, should it?”

  Gisela snorted. “I once sang at an outdoor concert in Baltimore in August, the hottest day of the year. The conditions were deplorable. Humidity, pollution, little bugs flying into my mouth, everything! But I sang, Bernie. It doesn’t matter where you are. You have to want to sing.”

  Still seated, Gisela began singing. Her voice was as languorous as her body, and the scented air filled with her soulful notes. My mother walked toward where I stood in the corner of the room.

  “‘Summertime,’” she whispered. “From Porgy and Bess.”

  “I know, I know. George Gershwin,” I replied.

  My mother turned her head to me in surprise.

  Gisela finished with a dramatic flourish, snapping her hands into fists as if trying to grasp the air. We applauded, my mother the most loudly. “Hanako, dear, do you have any ice for this?” Gisela asked, holding up her tea.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Gisela, but the refrigerator also can’t be used,” my mother said.

  “Of course, of course. No problem.”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Speaking of hot air, have you heard about Pavarotti?” Gisela said, her face still pink from singing. “Carousing around with that girl instead of his wife.”

  “What girl?” Inge asked.

  “Some pretty young thing. Young enough to be his daughter,” Gisela sniffed.

  “It’s deterioration,” my mother said, her hands clasped together primly on her lap. “If your body cells are intact, this kind of thing doesn’t happen.”

  “What do you mean?” Gisela asked.

  “To have an affair with some person and dumping whatever you’ve built up for the past thirty or forty years—that’s a sign of deterioration. I can see that in Pavarotti. He can see his future and that is very scary.”

  “He is almost sixty,” Lynne added.

  My mother nodded sharply. “Look at Domingo. He’s doing well, despite his age. Either he didn’t have this, how shall I call it, offshoot, or he had it and cut it off.”

  “Ouch,” Bernard said.

  “It’s like the offshoot of a plant,” my mother continued, one arm slithering into the air. “It saps you of energy. Domingo sticks with the same old woman and stays healthy. Pavarotti doesn’t, and is sapped.”

  I put a plate of cookies down on the table and tried to meet my mother’s gaze, which remained fixed on the floor. The singers paused again, the warm air in the room seemingly stifling their usual energy. I watched a drop of sweat slip down Gisela’s normally cool, dry face.

  “Your house is looking wonderful, Hanako,” Inge said. “It will be terrific when it’s finished.”

  Bernard inserted a cookie into his mouth as he pulled out a folder from his satchel marked “Puccini.” He chuckled as he held out a song. “Well, this is relatively easy. I could always sing this—” he began.

  “I want to sing,” my mother announced.

  Bernard reached into his bag. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, I’ve got the tape player in here,” he said, his mouth full of cookie.

  “No tape,” my mother said.

  She strode to the fireplace and stood in front of the mantelpiece, her hands tightened into determined fists. She wavered, and unclasped her hands for balance.

  “Ahhh, Sado eh,” she began. She drew out the notes for as long as she could, slipping slowly through lilting half notes sweet and plaintive. Her eyes were big and unblinking. I remembered dancing the Okesa during summer evenings, trying my best to mimic the adults, the air cool and salty, my feet swimming in borrowed sandals. My father never danced, standing off to the side, smoking, the lit end of his cigar blinking on and off like a firefly. But my mother danced, her face luminescent as the moon, her arms and hands sweeping through the air.

  “Sado eh to kusa ki mo nabi-ku yo,” my mother sang.

  And then I sang back: “Ah-ryo, ah-ryo, ah-ryo-san.” My mother glanced at me calmly, without surprise, as if she had been expecting me to join her. I listened to her carefully, singing the chorus each time she reached the refrain, until she finally finished the “Okesa.”

  The room was silent. Gisela was staring at my mother, her chin balanced on a finger, while Bernard and Inge exchanged glances. My mother remained in front of the fire place for a few moments, looking out the window, before speaking.

  “I’m terribly sorry for all the discomfort,” she said. “Perhaps it would be best if we stopped here for today.”

  MY MOTHER AND I were in the kitchen when the garage door opened. I listened to the stairs creak, then Alex turned the corner, dressed in white painter’s pants and a cantaloupe-colored T-shirt, his hair freshly combed. He had a clear, confident air, as if he had just emerged from a shower to begin his day. I felt a sense of relief when I saw him.

  My mother, standing on top of a step stool, returning a tin of biscotti to a high shelf, shook her head. “Oh, Alex,” she said, pressing her closed eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. “We don’t have power today. So I’m afraid we won’t be able to work on the bathroom. Maybe you can come back some other time. Is that possible? I’ll call you when we have this problem solved.”

  He looked at both of us from the hallway.

  “Are you O.K.?” he asked.

  My mot
her nodded. “Please just come back some other time,” she said, suddenly unsteady on her feet. She swayed for a second, arms flailing as she groped the air for balance, and then she stepped off the stool and slowly crumpled to the floor, still clutching the biscotti tin. Her head made a surprisingly soft thud when it hit the floor.

  I watched this happen from the kitchen table as if it was a home movie, demanding from its audience only muted amazement. Even leaning over my mother, her face white and slack, her mouth slightly open, I still couldn’t believe that I was there, present.

  “Mom?” I asked, my voice sounding in my head as if my ears were blocked.

  Alex shuffled quickly into the kitchen, his workboots heavy against the tile, dropped to his knees, and carefully picked up my mother’s head as if retrieving a fallen melon. I stood by dumbly.

  “Get on the phone and call someone,” Alex instructed. His voice turned gentle. “Hanako? Hanako? Hello?”

  My mother’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal the whites of her eyes. She raised her left hand and touched my knee.

  “I’m fine. Don’t call anyone. I just lost my balance.”

  She managed to prop herself up on her elbows.

  Alex glared at me, his right eyebrow arched dramatically. “Call a doctor, Emily,” he demanded.

  My mother looked at me pleadingly. She hated doctors. When I was a child, she suffered alone through bouts of bronchitis, poison ivy, and a mild case of what we later concluded had been pneumonia. She simply climbed into bed and stayed buried under the covers until she recovered.

  “I have very low blood pressure,” she told Alex. “I have to be careful about getting too tired. I need to keep stimulants in my body.” She tilted herself to her right side, rolled onto her knees, and struggled to her feet, her back toward Alex.

  “I’m going upstairs to lie down a minute,” she said hoarsely.

  Alex stood up, brushing invisible particles from his knees, scenting the room with turpentine. He watched my mother straighten her sweatshirt and leave the kitchen.

  “Frankly, I’m all for doctors,” he said.

  “My mother’s fine. She has this low blood pressure thing every now and again. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “How old is your mother?”

  “Fifty-eight this past April.”

  “And when she falls down in front of you, you don’t get worried.”

  I knew how strong my mother could be. A day in bed, and she would be all right. “What good does it do to worry?” I asked.

  “You’re her child. That’s your job.”

  I shot Alex a look. “How old are you?”

  He appeared startled. “Sixty-five. No, sixty-six.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I just turned sixty-six. In January.”

  “What sort of kids do you have? They don’t worry about you doing this kind of work?”

  Alex paused for a moment, then he headed to the living room and stood at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll check on you in a while, O.K., Hanako?” he said loudly. His baritone voice resounded in the hallway.

  My mother didn’t answer. I sat alone in the kitchen, listening to Alex go down through the garage to his truck and start the engine.

  MY MOTHER’S BEDROOM was exactly as it was when my father was living at home; there was a wooden dresser with a mirror cracked in one corner, two bedside tables, a double bed, and a desk that rocked when you wrote on it. The walls, curtains, and bedspread were off-white, really of no color at all. Pappa’s books were still piled in teetering stacks on the floor, and his silk ties hung in the closet.

  When I peeked in, my mother was deep beneath a tangle of sheets, only the top of her head visible from where I stood.

  “Feeling better?” I asked, nearing the mound of covers. There was slight movement, and I heard deep, even breathing. She moaned a little before pulling the sheets down to reveal her pale face.

  “You gave me a scare down there,” I told her, sitting beside her on the bed.

  “Actually, the experience was quite strange,” my mother said. “I see the biscotti, and suddenly I don’t see them anymore. Next thing is Alex’s face in front of me.”

  “He was worried.”

  “Oh, please. How embarrassing. There is no need.” She paused, smiling slightly. “Although I must admit it is rather nice of Alex to be concerned,” she added.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, could you go out and buy me some broccoli rabe? I feel like I need some green vegetables, iron. They sell it at the Chinese restaurant.”

  “Sure. I’ll go out and get some.”

  “Thank you.”

  Despite the stifling heat in her room, my mother buried herself again under the sheet, as if preparing to hibernate for the winter. By the time I had gotten up and reached the door, she was already snoring softly.

  • • •

  AS I TURNED onto the main street in town, I spotted Alex’s green truck pausing at a stoplight, several cars in front of me. Instead of making a left to go to the restaurant, I decided to follow him. He waved to a gardener mowing a lawn, who froze for a moment, as if unable to make out Alex’s face through his perspiration, before jumping to attention.

  “My man!” he yelled.

  I slowed to a crawl on each straightaway, speeding up only after Alex’s truck had disappeared around a bend ahead. He made his way through Pleasant Springs’ leafy neighborhoods to the Saw Mill River Parkway. He wove through light traffic, light blue smoke shooting out his truck’s exhaust pipe, braking politely for a driver who swerved suddenly in front of him. He continued to head north, passing the exits for Mount Kisco and Bedford Hills, driving with one arm out the window, his hand lightly tapping the car door. I hardly ever traveled this far north; my life as a child ended at the Bedford Hills’ McDonald’s and the nearby shopping mall. Alex took the exit ramp toward Brewster and his truck zoomed along with increasing confidence, working the twisting streets of familiar territory.

  We continued like this for a while, with a Buick and a van evenly spaced between us, passing by expanses of open land. I started to enjoy not knowing where it would end, and loosened my hands on the steering wheel, nearly missing Alex when he suddenly slipped down a driveway and disappeared.

  I pulled the Volvo onto the grassy shoulder a few yards from the driveway—a pebbly track with sprigs of grass erupting from beneath the stones. Trees hovered over both sides, creating a sheltered, leafy tunnel. I unlatched the car door, got out, and waited to hear the thud of Alex closing his pickup truck’s door. Then I crept down the driveway until I could see his house.

  A large white rectangle, like a giant sugar cube, sat on a wide lawn, as open and expansive as a small golf course. There were a few tall birch trees, but no shrubs or other plantings. The expanse of grass began at the edge of the house and ended in a precise line where the woods began. I walked slowly toward the house and stood half-hidden behind one of the larger birch trees, craning my neck to get a glimpse through the front window, when Alex popped out from behind a tree.

  “Boo!” he shouted.

  “Alex, Jesus,” I said. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  He burst into laughter. “Who’s the one spying? You’d make a terrible detective,” he said. “All I had to do was look at my rearview mirror to see this crazy yellow Volvo weaving around.”

  He turned toward the house and looked back at me. “Why don’t you come inside for a drink? You can take a look at my house for once.”

  JUST IN SIDE THE front door, I paused to admire a glass vase filled with white lilies. It sat atop a marble table beneath a gold-framed mirror mounted on the wall. The ensemble—the spotless beveled surface of the mirror, the dark green marble with its gray and black veins, the fresh, fragrant flowers—didn’t shock me so much as disorient me. This couldn’t possibly be Alex’s home, I thought. After watching him bumble about in our house, I couldn’t imagine him in such a simple, elegant enviro
nment.

  But Alex moved about the hallway with ease, throwing his keys onto the table, where they clinked against the vase.

  “So you wanted to see how I live, huh,” he said, talking as he walked into his kitchen.

  “I’m not sure,” I said, hesitating in the hallway. “I just saw you heading home and decided to follow you.”

  I heard the refrigerator open. “Do you want a drink?” Alex called out. “I’m having a Diet Pepsi. But I’ve got herbal tea, if you like. That’s pretty nice.”

  From where I stood I could see a corner of the kitchen, with copper-bottomed pots hanging from the ceiling and a magnificent turquoise tile floor. Brightly colored ceramic plates were displayed on top of the cabinets. The kitchen looked pristine and untouched.

  “A drink, Emily?” Alex asked again.

  “No, thank you,” I replied.

  “Go on ahead into the living room. Have a seat, make yourself comfortable.”

  I walked gingerly across an Oriental silk runner, glancing at framed lithographs of birds on the wall.

  A large unframed abstract painting hung on another wall. The subject was distinct, autumn leaves at their colorful peak reflected on the surface of a lake. The vibrant reds and oranges burned like tiny fires in the high-ceilinged, white room.

  A baby grand piano dominated one end of the room like a black lake. The sofa and armchair were as white as the walls. A glass table in the shape of a lima bean seemed to float just above the wooden floor, like an elevated, frozen puddle. There was little else in the room, except for another glass side table with a single framed photo and a book called The Tenor’s Son on the seat of the armchair. Luciano Pavarotti stared up from the cover.

  “Actually, I bought the tea as an experiment. The boxes look attractive, like they’re going to cure you of something, but the tea’s terrible,” Alex said, emerging from the kitchen, snapping open a cold soda, a bag of corn chips under his arm.

  “Did my mother give you that book?” I asked, pointing to The Tenor’s Son.

  Alex shook his head while sipping the soda. “Got it myself. Found it in the Waldenbooks bargain bin for a dollar. Pretty interesting, although I’m not that far into it. I thought it might be a good idea to find out a little bit about the man.”