But then, with some effort, he overcomes his anger and he says, “You may not trust me, or what I say, but all the same there she was, playing for me. Her fingers,” he says, “they were flitting, all across my skin, and I closed my eyes, just to be focused, to feel her. With such speed she played, such fury, even.”
“And you heard it?” I ask, not really wanting to believe him, but remembering suddenly how, every night before bed, mom would tell me to practice my fingering, to play notes in the air—without touching the keys at all—because that was the method passed in her family, from generation to generation: the method of committing a long piece of music to memory.
“What do you mean, did I hear it,” says my father. He seems to dislike the question, because he never doubts himself. “I sure did. I sure as hell heard it.”
“What was she playing, then?” I inquire.
“The left hand,” he recalls, “it was playing broken chords. And it alternated, you know, between two scales, where the notes were sharp and rising. And the right hand, it was playing a melody, which hovered in the air, trembling up there, over the left hand chords. After a while the music became wild... It became agitated, and so did I; which made me see things—”
“What,” I ask, “what was it you saw?”
And I note that he is listening—but not to me—trying, perhaps, to steady himself, to find, somewhere inside, at the core, a constant tempo. Perhaps, like me, he can hear a beat, the distant beat of a metronome. I wonder if he, too, is counting time.
Then, in an odd tone of voice he says, “I saw the top, the shiny top of her piano. It flashed as it opened. And there, in that surface, which looked almost glassy, as if it were a mirror, you could see her eyes.”
At this point I am ready to berate him, because anyway, what is so special about the top of that piano, other than the dent, and those marks and scratches? And who, in his right mind, can see it appearing there, out of thin air, right next to a hospital bed?
And the eyes, where did they come from, the twilight zone? He must be insane, don’t you think? Insane—or totally out of his mind!
So I say under my breath, “Fat idiot!”
And he snaps again, as if he could hear me, and he says, “Don’t call me fat!”
Startled, I glance at him. “You never question yourself, dad, do you.”
“I do not,” he says. “I know that top was not there—but still there it was, and I saw it.”
I wave my hand at him, which annoys him. He seems saddened by my disbelief.
“It was lifting,” he insists, “just like that, lifting open before me. Like a wing, you see, with the edge sweeping up over you.”
“Don’t you tell me, I know how it looks,” I tell him.
“Like a wing,” he repeats. “A wing, held in place by a crutch. And that,” he says to himself, with no further explanation, “that was the way we were, your mother and I. A wing and a crutch.”
I wish to tell him No, I don’t think so—even though this time, his words find an echo in me, and I can almost hear that wing, flapping in the air above us, and then coming down heavily, and leaning hard, right on top of its support, its crutch, with a jolt and a creak.
Then suddenly—in the shadow under his wheelchair, where the sofa used to be before I pushed it over—right there, I think I see something: a few traces... Can you see them? Shaped like little loops, pressed lightly one after the other, into the dust.
I crawl out from under the belly of the piano, and there I find it, after all these years, buried in layers of dirt: my mother’s lost ring. Only now it is a bit stuck. It seems to be frozen in place, and it has no halo.
I dig it out and I shiver, because here, in my hand, is a token of my family, the way it used to be; the way it had better be. Whole. Perfect. Ideal. Worthy of all that pain, the anxiety, the longing. Now, if I open my hand—even a little—it may slip away.
Here is my past. I would like to think it was in harmony. I must keep hold of it, so I can keep my grip.
My father is watching me. His eye, the one I can see, is set in its socket, and from there it discloses a hint, just a hint of suspicion. I rise up over him and at once he clenches the armrests, and steers the wheelchair away, not knowing what I hold in my fist, not aware of the cold, metallic touch, or of how much it can make you hurt, in here—but noticing, perhaps, the tears streaming down my face.
Here is that thing that, once upon a time, would light up and zigzag in the air with such spark, such energy, when she played for us. And then—after mom threw it away—nothing was ever the same again. No one would believe me if I told them. And now that I found it, I am at the point where I begin to doubt it myself.
No Omelette For Me
Chapter 3
For the last hour, two things have been happening, each causing its own type of discomfort. I will them to go away, go away already. Still I can sense them, one becoming stronger, the other—more distinct, even as I try to recover the ghost of my dream, or at least find my sleep, which has receded, like floodwaters under a relentless, blazing sun.
I recognize then that my sleep has become as shallow as a plain puddle, and wish I could immerse myself back in it, calm myself down, and not pay attention to these things, one arousing unease, the other—hunger. At this point my eyelids are so heavy, and if I keep them shut I could still sink back, still lose myself. Yes, I would float, like a baby in the dark liquid of the womb, and it would feel so good, and as cool and shady as nighttime...
It must be late morning, because outside, in the garden below, the sprinkler has begun its singsong. Which confused me at first, because I thought I heard something else. Then by small, imperceptible degrees, it became nothing more than background noise, so that the thing, the voice I have been hearing, could become clearer, and claim my full attention.
So first: I can hear a tune.
How shall I describe it? It is a monotonous repetition, like that of someone who knows only one song, and is committed, for no good reason whatsoever, to go on singing it.
And so she goes on, and on she goes, never stopping, never growing tired—no matter how tiresome that tune may be, or how quickly it manages to drain the joy, or any remnant of anything close to pleasure, from the life of anyone around her.
So I cover my ears with the pillow, with the thought of how content I would be, at long last, to sink my head into the soft material, and stick my nose deep, deep into it, breathing nothing, and thereby ending this torture, ending it for good and forever.
Then Second: before I can move, I can sniff trouble. Here it is, the smell of bread baking.
Tinged with vanilla and honey, the scent has come in, perhaps sneaking around the door, finding its way through a crack, or puffing through the keyhole. It is forming, even now, into a channel, an invisible channel floating somehow in midair, right above me, swelling up there as if it were an extension of my nostrils.
By now, my stomach is growling, so I have no choice. Up, up and away flies the pillow, off come the blankets! I walk out of my room—hair uncombed, chin unshaven—and find myself waking up to hunger. Or at least, to an undeniable craving.
Framed by the kitchen door, standing there with her back to me, she cranks open the oven. Fume comes out of its gaping mouth, inside which lay two freshly baked loaves, shining with the gloss of egg wash, and sprinkled generously with crispy, toasted sesame seeds.
With a large oven mitt, this woman—my father’s new wife—puts her hand inside, and takes hold of the baking pan. I can hear a slight sizzle. Now her thighs tighten. One foot is rising behind the other as she pivots, bringing the loaves right under my nose.
“Ben!” says Anita. “There you are. You hungry?”
And without waiting for an answer she lays the pan down, and lifts one of the loaves onto a wooden cutting board. Then Anita sets it down next to the egg salad, which is heaped on a large, oval china platter, which is entirely new to me. I suppose she has gotten it recently, perhaps as a wedd
ing gift. The platter has ruffled edges and—quite ridiculously—it stands on one leg, as if it were a fossil of a stork.
It is part of a large assortment of china bowls, in which dips and spreads are artfully presented: garnished with chopped parsley, and decorated by thin cucumber slices and plump cherry tomatoes, they are displayed right here, on the tablecloth. And there, behind the table, slumped in his wheelchair, is my father.
With great exuberance, Anita sets down the salt and pepper shakers, fills a glass jug up to the brim with orange juice, and another with grapefruit juice. She keeps bringing more stuff, more food to the table. Why she does it I have no idea. It is fully loaded already.
Perhaps she is eager to impress him—and me as well—by putting her skills on display. Or else, she likes excess. This woman may be in the habit of overdoing things. There is a fever of excitement about her, which could easily be contagious.
Meanwhile she goes on humming, in a perfectly flat voice, with no pause and to no end. “Look! look! look,” she hums tediously, never actually reaching the rest of the phrase, “Look at me.”
Anita does it totally out of tune—to the point that the original song has gone missing, or else it is impossible to recognize—but in a cheerful manner all the same, which in a strange way, starts to make it endearing to my ears.
My father listens to that dull, repetitious noise until he can take it no longer. “Now, why on earth do you sing?” he interrupts her. “What is all this chirping about? No songs, for God’s sake, and no more food. And that thing, that egg salad. You know how much I detest it, don’t you.”
“Fine,” she says, shrugging. “How about an omelette, then?”
Before he can open his mouth I set my chair across from him, and flopping into it I say, “Sure!”
My father folds his arms and stares out, with deliberate focus, through the window. There is not a cloud in the sky, so who knows what it is that he sees out there. “No, nothing for me,” he grumbles. “This breakfast would have been so much better, don’t you think, Ben, it would have improved so much if there was nothing here at all, if instead of all this, there would be just a plain cup of coffee.”
I cannot help noticing how Anita manages to ignore what he has just said. Incredibly, she does not take it as a slight. Her face shows no sign of feeling hurt. There is nothing there, nothing but freckles. By contrast, my mother would have pouted, because of all the careful planning and all the work, you know:
The shopping for ingredients, and kneading the dough, and letting it rise hours in advance of the meal, and braiding it, and rinsing and chopping and slicing the vegetables, and squeezing the juice—in short, all that went into preparing such an elaborate breakfast, which men, mom would say, never seem to note, let alone appreciate.
She was such a proud woman. I can just imagine her pursing her lips, until the line defining her mouth became rumpled, erasing itself by turning as pale as the skin around it.
Unlike my mom, Anita just laughs it off.
“Soon,” she tells him, “you will get your wish: before you know it, there will be nothing left. Nothing to eat but crumbs. Don’t you wait too long.”
And she turns the bread knife around, so that now the blade is pointed at her, and the carved wooden handle at my father. This way, it would be safe for him to take hold of it.
“Here,” she says. “Cut yourself a slice.”
The wheelchair creaks, tilting away in a shaky manner. “I have no appetite for it,” says my father, with a stubborn tone in his voice. “No appetite for anything, really.”
She turns from him, impatiently this time. “Enough!” she says. “Snap out of it! You must get stronger. Someone needs to bring in the dough. Between the two of us, it’s you who’s the bread winner, no? Ain’t you?”
Instead of an answer, his jaws tighten. He hangs his head with a sense of pain, even desperation, worried perhaps about his job, or his health, or both.
And at once, without missing a beat, she bends over and gives him a real reason to suffer, because she elbows him right there, between his ribs; which immediately sets him straight, and gets his full, undivided attention. I can sense, somehow, that she is about to play us one against the other.
“Seriously now,” says Anita, pointing the bread knife at all the food, heaped so bountifully on the plates and the bowls. “What d’you think? This is all for you?”
“Who, then?”
“It’s for the boy,” she says, rising up from him and bumping her hip against me. “He’s hungry, see? Look at his eyes.”
I doubt either one of them can figure out what I am about to say, because my mouth is full—but all the same I venture to spit out, “I am not a boy.”
To which she just smiles. Her eyes are cast down at me, cast in the shadow of her eyelashes, so I cannot really read her—but I can recall how they looked last night: bright, even luminous, they shone at me from the dark, that first moment I saw her, like the eyes of a cat.
“Not a boy,” I swallow, and take another bite. “I am a grown man.”
And she says, in a taunting tone of voice, “Now, who asked you.”
“I want you,” I start telling her, and find myself having to stop, and gulp down. Then I repeat, “Really, I want you to stop this! I mean it. Call me by my name. Now, why can’t you do that.”
“And I want my coffee,” my father cuts in. “Now, when am I going to get it.”
“You will get it,” she says, turning on him, “when you give a little.”
He says, “My God, you are in heat. Now how does that happen, in your condition? Cool off already, in front of the boy! What do you expect of me? You wanted to get married, so now we’re married. Mazel Tov! What more do you want?”
“I want you to look at me,” she says, thrusting her chest out in front of her. “You haven’t been here for two weeks, since the wedding. And now that you’re here, you ain’t really here. Am I even wanted here? I’m a woman. I need to feel desired, and I need to be held by a man.”
At this point I feel obliged to peep in, for the third time, “I am not a boy.”
And she wipes her brow. “My God,” says Anita, as she turns away from my father. “I’m so hot. Don’t you wait too long.” And with a harsh motion, she flings the knife on the cutting board, right there between us.
It gives a sharp sound, which startles my father. His mouth is mirrored in the surface of the blade, and suddenly it becomes clear to me that the oven is not the only one fuming—so is he.
He raises his eye to her, and jealousy escapes. He glares at me, and a warning shoots out. What does he want from me? There is nothing I can do. He hates me for staring at her and he hates me for trying not to stare.
Now there she stands, by the counter, measuring the coarsely ground coffee, one tablespoon then another, right into the basket of our coffee percolator. He groans, which sounds like a bubble over a flame.
I can tell they have a language between them, a language without words: Anita glances back at him, he gives her a nod with his head, and in turn she secures the top, as tightly as she can, on the percolator. Her feet tap around the linoleum floor. For whom is she performing this dance, I would like to know.
Anita is bare legged, buttoned up in an oversized, short sleeve cotton shirt, which probably belongs to him. It is crumpled, maybe from rolling around in her messy bed. Although, judging by my father’s condition, as well as his mood, that may have been the only action she got last night.
I can easily see her the way he does: his shirt hangs loosely around her, refusing to disclose any hint of her curves. You can only guess her nipples, because even as you try to pin them down, they sway on her body, roll with every step, when she walks and when she stops, right there by the stove. And only when she turns the button, raising the heat to medium, do they mark their place, briefly, by pressing against the coarse fabric.
Then, rising to a tiptoe Anita takes a peak through the clear glass knob, right there on the top of the pe
rcolator, to check if the coffee is sufficiently brewed. Her hair is gathered loosely, and coiled into a French twist. Some strands have unravelled, and they are dangling around her face and over one shoulder, hemmed in by a soft, reddish fuzz. I try to imagine how it would feel to twirl that curl around my finger.
The same reddish fuzz flashes, for an instant, right there, from her armpit, as she lifts her arm to pour out his coffee. Anita hands him the cup and he sets it away from him, far in the middle of the table, saying, “Now go, go get dressed already. We will take care of things here.”
“We?” I say. “Who’s we?”
“You,” he says. “And I.”
I rise up against him.
“You?” I say. “You can barely move, and what kind of things are we talking about? I don’t know much about taking care of anything here, especially when I am hungry, and right now I am hungry, very hungry, and what about my omelette?”
“And what about me? I’m hungry too,” says Anita. “I’ve got such a huge appetite this morning. And you know,” she hints at him, “there is a bun in the oven.”
This is when he makes his move. My father leans forward in the wheelchair and to my surprise, he wraps his arms around her waist, gathering her to his breast. She lets out a cry and lays her hands over his shoulders. Her fingers flutter around his neck, and glide down to his back. And so she stands there, embracing him.
It is amazing to hear her now: by contrast to her singing, her giggling voice is full and rich. In no way can I explain it.
He rests his head gently against her belly, rubbing his forehead against it. I think I smell his scent on her, which makes me turn my eyes away, because I know I am the stranger here, and this moment is so private, so intimate between them. Touching her, and being touched in return, seems to bring out a change in him.
“Look at you,” he says, and for the first time this morning, there is laughter bubbling up, deep down in his throat. “Now where is that bun? I cannot feel it. It is slightly flat, no? No wonder you have such a big appetite! Why, it is an appetite big enough for two.”
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 3
