Dear Moshe,
Thanks for the fruit. The prickly pears are fabulous. Luckily, my hands, eyes, and mouth are working properly. The doctors say I’ll walk again—that physical therapy will get me back to normal. I don’t really believe it, but I work hard in my sessions in the water, especially since the therapist has breasts like the oranges decorating the basket you sent me!
Oh Moshe!
I wanted to thank you. I don’t know how to do it face-to-face. The words get stuck.
When I saw you in front of the church just as those loonies were bringing out that immense cross, I knew I was saved. And if I hadn’t already been in pain, I would have laughed to see the look on your face when you entered the forbidden place.
I’m a doctor, so I knew I was having a stroke. I told myself, that’s it, that’s just life …
Do you think those maniacs would have crucified me? I think that was their plan. There would have been a trial. Some journalists want to interview me, but I’m trying to avoid it. We’re talking full-on Mel Brooks. Thanks, Moshe, you are my friend. I’ve never had a friend I agreed with so little. I think it’s great. You should find yourself a Hamas terrorist pen pal and me a wolf breeder. We’d write each other hilarious letters.
See, even in writing, I hold back my feelings. I joke when I get emotional. And all of the tranquilizers make me tired and I’m getting old and it’s almost nighttime … I don’t want to turn on this purple ceiling lamp that makes my skin look pasty and my eyes heavy.
Thank you.
You saved my life.
Harry
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 15, 2009
Subject: [no subject]
My Annabelle,
I wish you hadn’t found out about everything on the same day. My illness, your father’s stroke. How is he?
If you need to stay with him, I can come to Israel. Surely I can find a good doctor there. A Jewish country without a good doctor—now that would be ironic.
You didn’t become an orphan from one hour to the next. He’s going to get better quickly, you’ll see. And me, I’m always surprising everybody. I’m counting on making it to your wedding. On the other hand, no, still no news from David. He’s fine, I know it. He just needs time.
I love you very much,
Mom
p.s. Tell me if I should jump on a plane.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 17, 2009
Subject: Re: [no subject]
Mom,
You don’t “jump” on a plane when you have bone cancer. Unless it’s to say goodbye to the love of your life. Is that what you want to do?
Give me a few days to organize things. I found an apartment in Tel Aviv. It’ll be easier for Dad.
Our telephone number is 992 5127, if you want to talk to either of us.
I’m interviewing nice ladies to help Dad, then “jumping” on a plane to find a doctor for my mom so I never have to tell her goodbye.
Annabelle
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 19, 2009
Subject: Answer!
David,
I went to Israel so Dad could protect me, so I could remain a child.
Now I’m responsible for two beings that are descending the mountain that I’m only just starting to climb.
And you, who are already at the top—could you please tell me what there is to see up there?
Just the void? Or the sky close-up?
Annabelle
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 28, 2009
Subject: S.O.S.
Dear Annabelle,
Since everyone writes each other in this family, I’m going to do the same. It’ll give me the impression of being a part of a whole, part of your armored square.
I’m writing because I haven’t heard from your brother. I would be lying if I said I was worried about him. I’m worried about myself. I love him with all of my heart and the idea that his no longer belongs to me is tearing me apart inside.
I spoke to your mother. I know he left after she told him about her illness. Of course, that’s what made him run away. Because this is running away. Everything is at the house. He left without taking anything or telling me anything.
I can’t help thinking that your mother’s looming death has pushed David toward life. And that’s where I realize that I’m no longer his life.
I don’t know who to turn to. Tell me if you hear from him. I see your mother often, Annabelle; she’s not doing well. I think she’s refusing to get treatment.
You need to come back.
With love,
Lawrence
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: August 29, 2009
Subject: My brother
Dear Lawrence,
I understand the pain you’re feeling. I haven’t heard from David. My brother is a completely free being who slips through your fingers like quicksilver. Have you ever broken a thermometer and tried catching the mercury?
I know he loves you, Lawrence. But before everything else, he writes. Everything is a pretext for writing. He’s a vampire. Your story will nourish him and he will nourish your story to create others from it. That’s his way of living, of finding his way. He plants little words, strings pearls, and doesn’t stop to reread them. He isn’t afraid of hurting.
When real life transcends his story, David is lost. He makes up stories on top of it. Builds a château to erase the wave. Without thinking that another is coming.
You, me—nobody counts in those moments.
But in the little box labeled “life” in the middle of his imagination, you have a place reserved. He’s left with someone else, yes, and that someone else is him.
Hang in there.
Annabelle
p.s. Yes, I’m leaving my father in good hands (did you know that a stroke paralyzed his legs? Temporarily, I hope) and will be there in two days.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: September 2, 2009
Subject: Life beyond words
David,
I’m scared. Please give me a sign. Mom needs us. You know how she loves you. It’s complicated between the two of us. She’s angry with me for not being you. I see it in her eyes when I bring her breakfast.
Come back,
Annabelle
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, September 3, 2009
Dear Dad,
You’re right; we don’t tell each other anything over the phone. We tell each other we’ve safely arrived, but we don’t tell each other the truth.
The truth is that Mom is alone and in terrible shape.
David left without a word. We don’t know where he is.
Here is a sonogram. I hope you’ll see the family likeness: it’s your first grandchild. Yes, you’re going to be a grandfather. That’s the other truth that I kept silent in Israel and over the damned telephone.
Mom is better just by touching my stomach …
Annabelle
From Harry Rosenmerck to Annabelle Rosenmerck
Tel Aviv, September 5, 2009
Dear Daughter,
I knew by the look in your eyes when you came to my house.
I guess I shouldn’t ask about the father, but I am one so I’m worried. Is this a souvenir of the old married man who didn’t know how to love you? Or did you fall in love in Nazareth without my knowing?
I think it’s love. At least, I hope so.
I’m very happy; but I’d always thought you’d marry first …
Dad
From: [email protected]
To: david.ro
[email protected]
Date: September 6, 2009
Subject: The playwright uncle
David,
Maybe this letter will finally get you to respond. You’re going to be an uncle, David. For two months, I’ve refused to accept the obvious, hidden my heavy breasts under summer dresses, stopped counting the days and the moments of nausea. The father is Avi, the back in the crowd!
This is the perfect example of getting pregnant behind someone’s back! My own, especially. Yes, yes, you’ll have understood by now that if I’m talking this way, it’s because I’m keeping it. I laugh for no reason. I’m completely silly. I keep telling myself I have a bun in the oven, that I’m knocked up, that I’m going to be a whale.
I’m taking care of Mom, but I’m angry with you, David. You’re her favorite! You’re the one she’s always loved. And it’s me who’s going to have to hold her hand and watch her get smaller and smaller while my belly grows.
Sometimes I feel ashamed. I tell myself that she’ll live long enough to see her grandson (yes, it’s a boy, I just know it) and that comforts me—I’m transforming my shame into a gift.
I came back to New York on Monday. I don’t know when you’ll be here. Sometimes, I tell myself that we’ve seen so little of each other over recent years that we could entrust our correspondence to secretaries and go on just being ghosts.
Dad is getting better. The apartment in Tel Aviv is great. His friend Rabbi Moshe Cattan comes to visit him a lot. The two of them have some good laughs. I’m thinking of the café terrace where Avi took me by the hand, with my hand on my stomach.
Annabelle
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: September 9, 2009
Subject: Re: The playwright uncle
Annabelle,
You’re going to have the child of a man you don’t know! Is this so you can give me a son? To try and win against Mom once and for all? Or to save her? Or to make Dad’s heart keep beating?
Think, Annabelle. This child isn’t just a symbol. Once he’s here, your life will change.
I don’t answer because I’m writing a book and I need to forget all three of you—all four of you now—for a little while.
Don’t write me.
I love you,
David
From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, September 12, 2009
Dear Harry,
I never would have thought that pictures of us would make me smile when death looms near … I’m looking through our old photo albums. I was pretty and I didn’t even know it.
I look like an old chicken carcass now, but Annabelle told me you’re coming to see me so I’m making an effort to eat. You always did like plump women … And I have a tube of red lipstick close by. That’s me—the elegant granny.
So I’m thinking about us in all of this disorder. Remember that time when those Americans invited us to Mustique? We got there to find a huge, empty house and were surprised that no one else was there, that there was no hustle and bustle … And then we saw the framed photos and you shouted, “We’re at the Lees’ house!” He was a shipping magnate who terrified you. We were afraid that someone would see us running away down an alley and got on a plane the next morning! You thought the guy was going to shoot you. As if we’d done something wrong …
I don’t know why that makes me laugh. Like your need to leave parties when you had to go to the bathroom because you could only go at home …
Or your obsession with that little Thai restaurant where you ate the same dish every other day for three years.
And your chess games with Reagan’s psychoanalyst over the telephone. You’d wake me up to tell me you’d taken his tower! How did I put up with you?
I’m holding on to memories like an old magpie and telling myself they’ll strike a chord with you all the way in Israel.
With love,
Monique
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, September 18, 2009
Dear Harry,
How are you? I wanted to tell you that Wednesday is Tisha B’Av and you’ll need to avoid bathing.
Every year, and you can verify this, it’s a perilous date and you’ll see the red flag hoisted on the beach. The waves rise by a meter and, unfortunately, people drown.
I think it would be better to avoid going out and instead stay at home and eat. By the way, that’s my daily advice! I’m sending you a few makrouds that my wife prepared for you.
Have you seen Obama’s stance? Clearly, he wants us to take care of this dirty business with Iran so they can play the nice Americans that send provisions to innocent civilians. And so we can officially be the strong arm of the Middle East, whereas we’re the only democracy. And I was so moved when the first black American president was elected …
Talk to me about politics, Harry. You may run less often, but your brain can still handle a few laps, no?
I’ll come over and kick your ass in chess next Thursday. I’d also like to exchange another volume of the Kabbalah for a Philip Roth. I’m reading it in secret at the yeshiva—it gives me a good laugh.
Your friend,
Moshe
p.s. The woman with the strange name who takes care of you—is she pretty? Why don’t you ask her to dance?
From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan
Tel Aviv, September 20, 2009
Dear Rabbi,
I see that my scathing humor is gradually rubbing off on you (yes, I’m addressing you formally so that you pay me the respect I deserve). Rest assured, the wheelchair in which I spend most of the day is not submersible. But maybe we could make a fortune with little submarines for the handicapped. Their cruel families who want to get rid of them could send them out for an underwater stroll on the cursed day of Tisha B’Av.
I remember this festival that so terrified my grandmother. Like everything else on our calendar, it’s calculated based on the position of the moon, which regulates the tides. It’s actually an astrologer’s religion. I’m going to call you Madame Sunshine, dear Moshe.
So, Moshe Sunshine, how are you? As for me, my ex-wife is dying, and it seems we love each other a little again, remotely. Now that death is just around the corner …
My daughter is going to have a child. I don’t know whose. I suspect every single one of my pig farm employees. All of my pigs are now either on plates or in supermarket aisles. I don’t want to go back to the farm, not to Nazareth or to what I thought was my home. As for my son, at least he’d been useful to his mother, but he’s disappeared ever since she got sick. It’s a bad made-for-TV movie.
Luckily, I have Laitrockva, whom my daughter found, and she is as ugly as a mud fence, if you want to know the truth. She makes feasts for me so I just eat and eat.
And you, dear Moshe Sunshine? What about you? Any news in your parish? Any signs of the second coming? Is the sea going to part in two anytime soon? All of that interests me.
I walk a little more every day. I hope there are miracles in the Holy Land. I plan to run the New York Marathon in six months, sponsored by a sausage brand, so if things don’t start moving faster, I’ll have to go to Lourdes. Come see me. Laitrockva will grill us some red mullet and we’ll play cards—enough with chess, I’m too good for you.
My best wishes to your nut-busting wife. I’m preparing a good Roth for you.
Your friend,
Harry
p.s. Any news from your son the soldier?
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, October 1, 2009
Dear Dad,
I hope the fat woman with the unpronounceable name is being nice to you and that you’re forcing yourself to walk a little. Soon, everything will be back to normal and you can launch a business raising Burgundy snails. It fits all of your criteria, no? It’s neither kosher nor halal. It’s repulsive and you could run after them.
I
’m trying to joke whenever I can, laugh at anything possible. The more steps you take, the fewer Mom is able to. If you could only see her. She’s so thin she could break. And my belly just keeps getting rounder. I have the horrible feeling I’m stealing life from her to nourish my baby.
I’ve only gotten one email from David in two months and he isn’t talking to Mom. I’m no longer sure whether she’s dying from cancer or the absence of her son. All I know is that she’s a shadow and her humor is growing like her clothes—some of them fall off of her now.
I’m going to send you the results from her blood tests. You’ll tell me the truth, right? I get the impression the doctors are lying to me, protecting me. Some say a year, others don’t want to say anything. But everyone is talking about the end.
She talks about you, you both, like they were the best years of her life. She wants to eat in kosher restaurants. She’s forgotten your fights and all of the rest. She’s knitting for my baby. She’s rereading Bukowski till her eyes ache. “It’s my indulgence,” she says.
See you soon, Dad,
Annabelle
From Harry Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne
Tel Aviv, October 5, 2009
My Monica,
Last night, I dreamed I took you dancing. You were wearing a skirt and I could walk with no problem. I even did a tap solo.
I’m praying because I’m closer to God than you are. I asked him to heal you and I swore to him that if he did, we wouldn’t say anything to anyone. We wouldn’t write a bestseller or even share an anecdote at dinners in town.
Ah, the dinners in town … it’s been centuries. Do you remember all the fatally boring parties with my colleagues in New York?
You always wore high heels—you were so pretty. I’d try to lift your skirt in elevators and you’d laugh. We never did anything; we didn’t want to be late or be caught in the act. And on the way back home, it was too late. It’s always too late on the way home. We’ve been drinking. We’re married. Everything will still be there tomorrow …
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