by Stef Penney
‘What are you doing, wicked boy! Clean that up right away!’
‘You try washing in that,’ Hendrik said evenly. He was twelve.
Mrs Koppel looked at her husband. Uncle Seppe continued to eat bread and cheese, refusing to meet Hendrik’s eye. There was a tumultuous silence for about a minute, marred only by the sound of Uncle Seppe swallowing, a shard of ice falling off the table and, Jakob was certain, his own frantically beating heart. The pieces of ice – on the tablecloth, on the plates, in the butter dish – began to gleam in the warmth of the kitchen. Mrs Koppel gave way first – she uttered an inarticulate noise and started to sweep the ice into a saucepan, knocking several pieces on to the floor, where they skittered and span into corners. Jakob, still biddable at six, dived under the table to help pick them up, but kept a particularly satisfying piece for himself: chunky, clear, with an inner universe of planes and bubbles, and sharp, curved edges like a prehistoric tool. He slipped it into his pocket, and after breakfast, while Hendrik was being walloped in the front room, he sat in their bedroom and turned it in his hands, rubbing the sharp edges smooth, studying it from every angle. He entered into that perfect, crystalline universe, where the yells from downstairs could not penetrate, until his hands were pink and frozen, and he was stricken to find that there was nothing left.
He wasn’t aware of that moment being the beginning of his love for ice, but perhaps it was. It was something so strange, so other, but associated with escape, with distraction from fear, a panacea against the struggles of life. And yet you couldn’t keep hold of it. The more he caressed and loved it, the faster it disappeared.
Jakob had known about ice, but he hadn’t really understood it before that morning; hadn’t appreciated its particular, fugitive allure. He would later remember his anguish as the shard dwindled in his hands, and the return of dreary, quotidian anxiety – there was shouting from downstairs, the tension of his brother’s mutinous hatred.
Jakob didn’t realise, then or later, that Hendrik’s protest had been on his behalf; Hendrik wanted to protect his little brother from the ice – an instinct that was both misplaced and, in the long run, utterly inadequate against its power.
Throughout childhood, Jakob suffered from nightmares in which he was drowning. Usually, the first he knew about it was when Hendrik – they shared a bed – shook him awake, simultaneously reassuring him and whispering fiercely to shut up. The first time Jakob remembered this happening, there had been a mumbling from the other side of the wall, and then Uncle Seppe opened the bedroom door and peered in, holding a candle. He didn’t step over the threshold, and kept one hand on the doorjamb, securing his line of escape.
‘Wat is al dat lawaai?’ he demanded.
‘Jakob had a nightmare,’ said Hendrik. ‘He’s all right now.’
He had his arm round his brother, shielding him. Uncle Seppe looked wary, but finally grunted and closed the door. Neither he nor Aunt Grietje ever asked Jakob about the nightmares, nor did he or his wife ever come to their door again, although the broken nights went on for years. Eventually, Jakob learnt to wake himself. He could – it seemed to him – feel the nightmare coming, and could struggle to the surface, gasping for breath, before Hendrik woke up.
.
He knew the dreams were caused by their father’s death. When he was older, he would walk to the shore of the East River and imagine what it would be like to fall into that turbid water. He stared at the massive towers of the bridge, growing with extraordinary slowness, wondering from where he had fallen into the river, for how long he had believed he would be rescued. There must have been people around. They must have had equipment. There must have been chances to fish him out, and yet they hadn’t. It was dark, of course, a freezing winter evening . . . Maybe, Jakob told himself, his father wasn’t conscious for very long; maybe he never realised that this stupid blunder was the end. Part of him believed that, if he did this imagining well enough, the nightmares would stop. Experience did not bear him out. Sometimes they went away for a while, but they always came back, surprising him with macabre, novel twists – now there were faces down there, or hands that gripped his ankles; on other occasions he would find himself paralysed, or blind.
Chapter 4
New York 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W
1882–3
Tragic deaths on the Siberian tundra
Loss of Commander de Long confirmed
Having lost their ship, the USS Jeannette, to the ice after drifting helplessly for two years, the party led by Commander de Long set off in three small boats for the nearest land – the New Siberian Islands. One boat was lost without trace. Of the remaining two, Engineer Melville’s boat made it to shore and found a native settlement. But Commander de Long’s boat landed on the uninhabited side of the Lena delta. The men set off in search of habitation, but one by one they collapsed and died of starvation and exposure. Only two men survived to tell the tale.
Brooklyn Daily Eagle, 17th April, 1883
At seventeen, when the bridge was still incomplete, Jakob was accepted to study natural philosophy at City College. He left Uncle Seppe’s in an atmosphere of mutual relief and moved to Little Germany, where Hendrik and his wife, Bettina, had a tiny spare room in their apartment. Hendrik had moved out when he got his first job, and lost little time in securing a wife with her own apartment and a small stash of savings. He had two ambitions – that he would make money, and that his younger brother would rise up from their humble beginnings and bestow honour on the family name. Hendrik and Bettina were adamant that Jakob would live with them, and that he would have the time to complete his studies. By then, Hendrik had been working for years in a butcher’s shop, and had now, with Bettina’s help, started his own business. He had good sense and unflagging energy. His wife supported him; some years older than Hendrik, and much wider, Bettina was a German widow with a ten-year-old son. She treated Jakob like another child. She was the kindest person Jakob had ever met – so much so that occasionally he distrusted it. Surely it couldn’t be real? No one could be so willing, helpful, cheerful? But she was. He was determined not to let them down.
Hendrik talked of his brother’s brilliant future, but Jakob was more pragmatic; he imagined becoming a surveyor for a mining company – perhaps in the Rockies, or Alaska – and knew that would make him content. He envisaged mountains he had never seen, skies untainted by smog. Endless views that contained not a single human being. He gravitated towards geology, attracted both by the opportunities it offered for travel and because it had, in its imperceptible, inexorable way, changed the world.
.
At City, Jakob became Jake. Within its walls, this happened a lot: names lost their edges and curlicues, become short and blunt. Alessandro became Al; Piotrek, Pete; Avner, Andy. The owners of these names were proud of their nationalities, but they did not want to be judged by them. In any case, they didn’t have time for anything longer. Everything was moving fast: their education, the society around them, the relentless spread of the city. Everything was galloping. Even friendships were formed quickly.
Jakob was walking to a lecture one day when a large figure fell into step beside him.
‘Hi. Saw you in Ledbury’s physics class.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘My name’s Urbino. Look – I need a favour. I’m going to miss the lecture today – gotta have a tooth out. Do you think I could crib off you?’
Jakob had to look up at the man next to him. He was well over six foot, and heavily built. A big, soft face with brown eyes. A slightly anxious expression.
‘Sure. I’m de Beyn.’
‘Oh . . . Thought you were Italian.’
‘No.’
‘Jewish? That’s okay with me.’
‘No. Give up?’
‘Mmn . . . French?’
‘No.’ Jakob was grinning now. ‘Well, my mother was part French. Rest is Dutch.’
‘No kidding. Frank Urbino. Majoring in medicine. Call me Frank.’
They shook hands.
‘Jakob . . . Jake. Geology.’
‘You don’t look Dutch.’
‘You don’t look Italian. Is that why you asked me?’
Frank shrugged. ‘Actually, I asked you because you’re one of the three people who don’t fall asleep when Ledbury goes on about wave formation.’
‘And the other two told you to take a hike.’
.
Frank came from a large family in the green reaches of uptown. He had three sisters and a brother. Anna, his closest sibling, was two years older than Frank. The eldest, Angela, was recently married, and Johnny was still at school. The other sister, Clara, worked in a store on third Avenue, and was, for this (and, Frank hinted darkly, other reasons), considered fast. Jakob was avid to meet her, but on the first couple of Sundays that he was invited to lunch with the family, she was, tantalisingly, elsewhere.
Frank was aware, as everyone is, that when a young man brings a friend home with him, he is regarded by any eligible sisters, and by his mother, as a potential suitor. The only person not aware of this was Jakob. When he was introduced to Anna, because she was shy and awkward, he made an effort to involve her in conversation. She was also – it didn’t entirely escape his notice – attractive in a quiet, serious way. In fact, they looked rather alike, thin and dark-eyed, with an expression, in repose, that suggested an intense gravity. Angela remarked on the likeness.
‘You know, Mr de Beyn, it is you and Anna who should be brother and sister, not she and Frank. Don’t you think?’ She looked around the table, not noticing, or affecting not to notice, Anna stiffen and look down at her plate. ‘Frank is such a great lump.’
‘Yes, you and I are like peas in a pod,’ Frank said, with a pleasant smile.
Angela opened her mouth in feigned outrage. As she was both very pretty and extremely good-natured, she could stand any amount of teasing.
‘Angie’s an idiot. We can’t understand how she persuaded her poor husband to marry her,’ said Johnny. There was laughter and the conversation moved on, but Anna did not recover her equanimity. After lunch, Jakob glanced over to see her quietly leaving the room.
.
It was a mystery to Jakob whenever a woman seemed to like him. He was neither tall nor well-built, being of average height and thin as a reed. When he looked in the mirror, he saw a face that did not seem to him manly enough; in fact, it struck him as more clownish than anything else – large brown eyes, strongly marked brows, a beakish, bumpy nose and rather feminine mouth that smiled too often. His hair was hopelessly wavy and untameable. His cheeks creased when he smiled. Worst of all, he was eighteen when he discovered the first white hairs sprouting at his temples. He thought his face looked untidy, as if someone had forgotten to finish it. On the plus side – he was at an age where he worried endlessly about his personal balance-sheet of attractions and deficits – he found it easy to make people laugh (little wit was required for this), he had a rich man’s teeth, and his untidy smile was contagious. As a result, he was misunderstood. People thought that as he was talkative and humorous he must be gregarious and light-hearted, whereas really he was neither; sociability was a shield that obscured and protected his inner self. He had a wide circle of acquaintances, but Frank was his only close friend.
.
The next time Jakob was invited to lunch at the Urbinos, the door was opened by an unfamiliar young woman. She looked Jakob up and down – he was suddenly conscious of the unfashionable cut of his trousers and the cheapness of his jacket – before extending her hand.
‘You must be Mr de Beyn. I’m Clara.’
Clara seemed like a creature from another, more favoured, realm: perfectly groomed, confident, witty. Surely it was art that made her lashes so dark and her lips so red? A few weeks previously, he would have been overawed by her scrutiny, but something momentous had happened since his last visit. He had not told Frank of this – had not told anyone.
One evening, his sister-in-law asked Jakob to return a fish kettle to its owner: a neighbour who lived two blocks away. The apartment door was opened by a drably dressed middle-aged woman. Jakob knew nothing about her, other than that her husband was a taxidermist. Mrs Gertler had an intelligent face, tired eyes and fair hair looped into an old-fashioned bun. She seemed old to Jakob, even older than his sister-in-law. She invited him in and offered him a glass of beer. They sat in the kitchen of the apartment, which seemed otherwise empty. Mrs Gertler asked him about his studies. He was flattered by her interest. When he finished the beer, he stood up and smiled.
‘I shouldn’t keep you any longer,’ he said.
‘It’s no trouble,’ she said. ‘Wait a moment, I need to give you something.’ She walked past him, and her arm brushed against his sleeve, although there was ample room for her to pass. It was so clearly unnecessary, he wondered that she should be so clumsy. His arm tingled.
‘I told Mrs de Beyn I would lend her this.’ She was holding a book of some sort, but she didn’t hold it out to him. ‘Perhaps, when she has finished with it, you could bring it back.’
She had a beautiful voice, low in tone and husky. Her accent was slight but noticeable. She held out the book. Jakob took it. She didn’t let go.
How it happened, Jakob afterwards could not remember. One minute they were standing in front of each other, and he was looking down at the book, and at her hand, so close to his; the next, her body was against his, and her lips were kissing his unbelieving mouth. In his mind, he had not moved a single muscle, and yet he found his arms were wrapped around her shoulders, and his hips, after the first few paralysed seconds, were pushing eagerly into her. It seemed entirely clear what should be done. Then there was a noise from the hall outside and they sprang apart. He was horrified; he didn’t dare look her in the eye, wondering if, despite the total lack of premeditation, it was his fault and an apology was required.
‘Thursday,’ she said, slightly out of breath, and slowly wiped her wet mouth with the back of her hand. ‘It would be good if you could bring it back Thursday. Seven o’clock.’
Jakob nodded, mesmerised by the suggestive gleam of saliva – his saliva – on her lip. He was speechless, dizzy, incapable of linear thought. She almost pushed him out of the apartment. Their eyes met briefly, affirmatively, before the door closed between them. Fortunately, the hall was empty and dark, and he stood in the shadows for a minute after she had closed the door. The book was there in his hand – recipes, in German. His heart was racing, blood thundered round his body like a river in spate, making his skin so tight he thought he would burst. There was a strange taste in his throat. He was ludicrously excited, but another, clearer, part of what he felt was fear, a conviction that something terrible had narrowly been avoided, and was bound to happen if he gave in to the demands of his body. That was what he had been taught to think. Thinking about sex – dreaming about it, fantasising about it – was one thing, actually doing it . . . that was quite another. Shaken, he took a long walk before going home.
.
In the days and nights that passed before Thursday evening arrived, Jakob found himself thinking often of Uncle Seppe. He felt that his fear came from Uncle Seppe, and was determined to stare at it until it withered away. He did not believe in hellfire, or even, he thought, much, in God, so he was not afraid of damnation. To be afraid of wantonness in itself was unscientific – a mere superstition. He had an inculcated fear of disease, but that did not seem a serious risk; Mrs Gertler was not a woman of the town, and she looked as healthy as anyone. Besides, he could and would take proper precautions; he walked miles out of their district to buy sheaths and even practised using them – a business which both repelled and amused him. Aware of his inexperience, he consulted tomes in the medical library (which were not helpful). In sex, as in everything he undertook, he was nothing i
f not diligent.
He indulged in endless fantasies. Mrs Gertler had been transformed from one of the nondescript older women who lived in the neighbourhood into a particular, perfectly desirable being, simply because she desired him. He dwelt at length on what he could remember of her face: an expression of intelligent melancholy; hazel eyes with brown shadows beneath – hinting at sensually sleepless nights; a soft, downturned mouth that gave her a look, not of sullenness but of a great, sad understanding. He realised how attractive she was, and had always been. Her figure was good, as far as he could tell from her dress and from those brief, incendiary moments when she had pressed it against him. His imagination went wild at this point, but having scant knowledge or past experience to go on, failed to create anything satisfactory, and petered out, inconclusive, in a lack of concrete detail.
.
Having persuaded himself he was not afraid, Jakob could not explain why he was trembling from the moment he approached her door. What if she had changed her mind, or denied everything? He had the book she had given him as his excuse. He prepared himself for the worst, as well as the best of outcomes. But she opened the door without surprise, and stood aside to let him enter. He saw that there was something different about her: she was – his heart, and everything else, leapt – clothed in a long, oriental-style wrap. He thrust the book out to her and said hello – hating how stupid his voice sounded; she took it with a slight, knowing smile. Jakob felt himself swallow with a dry throat, but she stepped close to him, put one hand on his chest, and the other went up to the back of his head and guided his face down to meet hers. While they kissed, she began to undo the buttons on his shirt.
‘Wait,’ he said, and held her face away from his with both hands. ‘Wait – what’s your name?’
‘Cora; it’s Cora,’ she whispered fiercely.
Jakob felt he should say something, but the fact of her tongue in his mouth seemed to obviate the need to think of an appropriate response. And then, and then . . . she pulled apart her wrap, and the singularity of her rendered his imagination null.
