The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2)

by Uvi Poznansky

  “Oh, come right in!” she says. “You’re just in time!”

  At this point I cannot help but ask, “In time for what?”

  My question hangs there, unheeded. Anita leaps over the fallen bench and rushes into the hall, where she glances at the old alarm clock. “Gimme just a minute,” she tells aunt Hadassa. “Lemme get my shoes on—”

  “What—what is this?” I ask. “What’s the sudden rush? Where—”

  “Hello, Ben,” says my aunt.

  She pushes her glasses up her long, bulbous nose. The yellowing lenses are quite thick. They look like a pair of magnifying glasses, through which round, enormous eyes are looking at me, inspecting me carefully up and down. At last she concludes, “How you have changed!”

  “Indeed I have,” I must admit. “I am ten years older.”

  “Are you?” she asks. “And was it you just now, playing like a lunatic?”

  I shrug, and my aunt goes on to say, “Why, you used to play better at the age of five! In those days, you were under a good influence, which is something I cannot say about present company.”

  “Sorry, aunt Hadassa,” I mumble. “I am too rusty. I can no longer to be The Entertainer.”

  “You sure it was you—not her?” she whispers, hinting at Anita. “To judge by the level of that noise, I was sure a stray cat must have slipped in, pussyfooting around, scratching its nails back and forth and all the way across, before starting to chew the furniture, or something.”

  So I lower my voice, imitating hers.

  “Who knows?” I say, as if in strict confidence. “You may be right. The door was open.”

  For a minute, aunt Hadassa frowns. “Next time, dear, just be sure to bolt it shut,” she says finally. “You do not want to deal with strange creatures, making their way in.”

  And looking straight at her I say, “Most definitely, I do not.”

  My aunt checks her watch, and rocks herself impatiently to and fro. Then she takes a step closer to me, and at once I step back, thinking that in a second, she would spring forth and pinch my cheek, the way she used to do in the old days, when I was a child—but as luck would have it, I have grown too tall for her reach. Or else, she has shrunk a little.

  “My, my, how time flies!” she complains.

  I have no idea if she is talking about the years that have passed—or the seconds ticking away, which you can hear from the direction of the alarm clock.

  Then, with a deep sigh, aunt Hadassa turns away from me, brushing a gnarled finger across the cover of the keys, to check for dust. And when her finger comes out clean, she seems deeply disappointed.

  “Anita!” she calls, checking her watch again. “Nu? The appointment is in half an hour!” And with acid sweetness, she asks, “You ready, dear?”

  To which Anita answers, “Sure! Lets go!”

  My aunt purses her lips with a firm pout, and before I can cut in, or ask anything, she plods heavily out the door. Her shoes are what you would call sensible. The wedge-like soles give a hard clonk and clunk, left and right, against the floor.

  Meanwhile, Anita wraps herself with her winter coat, and buckles a pink belt around it. She gives me an alluring look, then scurries to get out, turning back only once, to close the door behind both of them. Now you can hear the light touch of her footfalls, following at the heels of the old woman. They are going down one flight of stairs, then another.

  I draw closer to the door. And the minute I crack it open, I catch a glimpse of Anita, far below.

  I hear her saying, “Oh—I forgot!” and the old woman groaning, and again Anita’s voice, saying, “Lemme go back, like, just a sec. Wait, wait for me!”

  And there she is, running back up, skipping two stairs at a time. Now she stops at the landing just a flight below, and raises her face to me.

  So I ask, “You forgot something?”

  “Yes,” she nods, holding her belly, trying to catch her breath.

  “What, shall I throw it down to you?”

  “No.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Oh, Ben. I forgot,” her breast heaves as she takes a deep breath, “I forgot to tell you something.”

  I wait. I take a step out, across the doorsill, and stand there, close to the railing. From here I can spot a change in her eyes. The shade has vanished and now, they are so bright, gleaming in green, and there is a childlike joy in them.

  “It was a blast,” says Anita, and her voice is so relaxed, on the verge of laughter. “I mean, that thing we did! I swear, I didn’t dream it could be so much fun!”

  What she says next takes me by surprise.

  “Ben,” she wonders aloud, “what was it? Was that music?”

  I cannot tell her that it is, because in truth, I doubt it myself. So I shake my head, “No,” wishing I could dare say, That was something else: something intense—but not as complicated as I would have thought, earlier. Perhaps, it was simply a clash, the clash of wills between us—or else, you could call it Love.

  The instant this word crosses my mind, a look passes between us, and I am being held there in place, as if by a spell. Oh, let her not remove her gaze.

  Let it pierce me, let it go deep. It is hilt of the sword that holds the wound from bleeding.

  Let her search my heart, because what can she find there, but the cry, Come! Come to me, Anita! I am yours... If you refuse me—if you turn your eyes away—I fear that at this point, I shall fall. You have the power to bring me down—or else, you can make me fly.

  The stairs have dropped from view. The railing is but a fuzzy, peripheral impression. I pay little attention to her arms, her legs, her body—only her eyes are in sharp focus.

  In them I can see a bright flash—perhaps the flash of insight—over the darkness of the pupil, and flecks of golden light, sprinkled in a fine, intricate pattern all around the iris.

  I cannot begin to guess how long we have been standing there, how much time has elapsed. Perhaps it has been as short as a second—or else, as long as forever; after which she lowers her eyes, and starts turning away from me.

  “I see,” she says at last. “That was your piece. You think this is just a wisecrack. You think you’re The Entertainer.”

  Anita goes down a step, and for a minute, does not stir. Perhaps she is waiting, giving me an opportunity to speak, which for some reason, I just miss. Then she sways her hips, a bit seductively I think, and all I can do is stand there helplessly and listen to her footfalls, slowly descending the flight of stairs.

  By now she is under the landing. I can barely see her, but I think she is whispering, perhaps only to herself, “Why, why can’t you say nothing? Say any word—but that one, ‘cause you don’t really mean it. Nobody does. Say anything, apart from Love.”

  Nothing Surrendered

  Chapter 10

  Now that her footfalls have died away I linger around, feeling awkward. I look down the stairs, and out at the garden below, and my nostrils flare out, drawing a long breath, detecting something different in the air: Some trace, perhaps, of perfume.

  I cannot make up my mind whether it has been a mistake, I mean, just standing there in confusion, facing her, saying nothing—when in fact, in spite of what she may think, I had it: really, I had the words right there, at the tip of my tongue, to tell Anita how desperately I want her.

  There is no need, no need, no need to torture myself. This woman is not for me. No, I repeat, not for me. I am lucky, so lucky I have managed to restrain myself, somehow, and bite my lips.

  Nothing has been said, nothing surrendered.

  Still, even now, I am choking back tears, determined to deny the pain. I know all the reasons in the world to keep silent. The least of them is gossip.

  I can just imagine my aunt, who was waiting for Anita down there, at street level, keeping herself under the landing, well out of my sight. She must have been stretching her winkled neck, tilting her head in my direction as far as it would go, with the ears perked up, already guessing
the whisper of a forbidden affair, and her nose raised, sniffing a scandal in the making, eager to share her suspicions with anyone who would listen.

  How, then, could I speak, with the old woman there, ready to capture that which I was about to say, and then spin it on, and spread vicious rumors?

  Still, gossip is definitely the least of my worries. No matter who was lurking there, trying to listen in, I would have dared not only speak to Anita, but even cry out—as if it could bring her back—Stop! Don’t go like that. Don’t you leave me!

  Yes, I want to believe that I would have done it—if not for that other thing. What else can I call it but treachery?

  Indeed, I feel like a traitor. Anita is married to my father. What’s more, she carries his child. I should look away when she is around me. I should guard myself against her. I should guard my sanity. What it is that she does to charm me so, I do not really know. But the more I ache for her—the heavier my sense of guilt. I wonder, can he sense something of what I am going through?

  Last night I thought I caught him, glancing at me with a strange look, with something close to pity playing there, in his eyes. I could have attacked him right then, at that very moment. Oh, if only he knew!

  Perhaps then he would cast me aside and curse, even disown me. He would tell me I am no longer a son to him; not his flesh and blood anymore. Believe me, I do not wish to betray my dad. I keep telling myself that I cannot prove my virility by robbing him of his.

  Still, I am afraid of the demon in me, afraid of what it may do if I lose control, if I find myself overcome, suddenly, by a wild impulse. I pray I shall never reach this point, because then I may be tempted to take her, even by force—or else, kill him, so he cannot have her, no one can. And then... I do not even know. I may kill myself, out of shock and failure and despair, and most of all, out of remorse.

  For now, I am glad I still have a grip over myself. Nothing has been said, nothing surrendered. So I try to tolerate the pangs of conscience, and at the same time, try to blame my father for everything. Oh yes, I argue with him constantly in my mind, because really, what was he thinking? How could he replace my mom, by bringing a girl in here, a girl who is a year younger than me?

  Seriously now, how could it be my fault, when I was not the one creating an impossible situation—perhaps even a dangerous one—but instead, found myself stumbling, somehow, into it? Hell, how difficult was it for the old man to see that his actions would complicate things, wreck them beyond repair, not only for himself—but for all of us?

  I mean, how dare he take a sexy redhead to his bed, in our home, and then call me to come back, to live here with both of them, in a cramped space, together, like three monkeys rattling a cage? Why, anyone would tell you: this is a zoo, really! I must find an escape—or else, very soon, I shall go crazy, utterly, hopelessly crazy. You do not need a fortune teller to figure this thing out, do you?

  The nip in the air, and the sound of rustling must have conspired together to rouse a feeling of anxiety in me. I pass my gaze across the landing, where she has stood just a minute ago. Here, a bleak wind is playing with a few leaves, tossing them idly side to side, and then with one gust, hurling then over the chipped edge.

  And under the landing, a narrow asphalt walkway lays aslant between the weeds. It is veined with cracks, and bordered by a hedge that in springtime, would be flowering. This being early November, it looks rather bare.

  I go inside, where the air is stagnant, and pass by the white piano, where Anita and I have played together, only an hour ago. I push the cover away from the keys, and in one bang I come down on them, making them clang—but somehow, the music has gone out of me.

  Nothing has been said, nothing surrendered. Still, I should have been more careful with her. Silent I was—but not careful. So now she has taken with her that word, the word she found on my lips, unspoken. I wish she would let it go, and let the pain in my heart remain speechless.

  For my own sake I should have been much more careful. Now—even in her absence—I find myself in her hands, which feels strange to me. I am surrounded—and at the same time, isolated. I am alone. I am apart from Love.

  I wish she could forget that word. Maybe she has forgotten it already. Now, instead of a sense of relief, this thought stirs something else in me: perhaps, rage.

  She may be laughing at me, at this very moment, together with my aunt. Anita may be trying to coax the old woman to be on her side, and planning to charm her sisters, too, to win all of them over. She may be hatching a scheme to take my mother’s place, to be recognized by all—even by her enemies—as the new Mrs. Kaminsky, because now, with that baby in her womb, she is starting to grow into her new position, as the matron of our family.

  At this moment Anita may be getting ready for that appointment, about which she refused to talk to me—but I could tell she was eager for it, which for some reason, infuriates me. What could be more urgent, more important to her than what I wanted to tell her? And how can she act as if nothing at all has happened here, between us? How can she do it? How, how dare she ignore me?

  Heartless woman! I hate Love. I do.

  I rub my hands against my temples, trying to soothe myself, thinking that Perhaps, this anguish is entirely unnecessary. There is no need to torture myself. No need whatsoever. After all, nothing has been said, nothing surrendered.

  I pace around the walls, in and out of one room, then another. In my bedroom I spot the aquarium—the one grandma gave me, a long time ago—with its faint trace close to the rim, marking the level of water that used to fill it at one time. I remember the colorful fish, which dad bought for me then. In their place, the thing now houses a pile of my old T-shirts. I try one of them on, only to find that it is too tight on me, and that it smells of dust.

  In the bathroom, the air is damp, even stale. Anita’s comb lays next to the sink, with strands of red hair caught in its teeth.

  On the shelf, just above it, is my father’s tin of pomade, which he uses to make his hair slick and shiny. To the side of that are his shaving tools. Here is his badger brush, which is spotless. Wiped dry with great care, its bristles are tipped with silver. Resting against it is an elegant leather case, which holds his cut throat razor.

  It brings back a memory. As a ten year old boy I used to stand right here, leaning against this very door, just as I am now. Wide-eyed I would stare in awe at my dad, watching him go through his morning ritual, which never varied. I can see him so vividly in my mind.

  First, dad would soak a small towel in steaming hot water, and hold it firmly against his face, his eyes winking at me from the fogged up mirror. Then his eyes would turn serious, as he would go back to the business at hand.

  He would lift the wet brush, using it to apply shaving cream to his chin, swirling the thing around and around, until the lather had formed into stiff peaks. At this point, he would put the brush down—but not before painting the tip of my nose with a dollop of white, fluffy cream.

  Then he would stretch his skin between his fingers, until it was as tight as a drum, and angle the blade to it, and go through his first pass, traveling along the grain, shaving the hair with short, rhythmic strokes, and finishing it off with long ones. At this point he would bend down and let me help, let me lather his face for him, before straightening his back, and coming back up to the mirror, to study his jawline as if exploring some exotic, heavily wooded landscape. Then with a sure hand, dad would go through his final pass—the more dangerous one, when most accidents occur—this time, traveling against the grain.

  It must be late afternoon, maybe five o’clock by now. My father, I figure, is about to come back. And here I am: his flesh, his blood. I am looking directly at the mirror, wondering, Where is that boy? Is he lost? Can I still find him, hiding here, inside these eyes? And who are you, I ask myself, a traitor?

  In this spot, I am nowhere. And nowhere is a hard place to escape. So after a while I start wondering, What now? What shall I do? Now that I am home, where ca
n I go?

  I have no will. I have no curiosity. Of its own, my finger is passing with barely a touch along the blade until suddenly, catching on a spot, it halts. Rust, perhaps. I raise my hand over to the light, careful not to tighten my hold over the thing. A cold shine can be seen in intervals, shooting up and down between my fingers along the metallic handle. I can sense the edge.

  I can see my wrist, a vein twisting through it with a hard pulse. I can see the delicate lines, guessing their way across the skin. How frail is life. Better close your eyes. Close your eyes, I say. Do it.

  I close my eyes and with a light, effortless relief, my thoughts are lifted, flying away from the moment. They are lifted, turning over the edge, cutting up and away, heading for a far, far time in the past.

  I have no will. I have no curiosity.

  What now, I ask. What if I have no blood. What if I am no longer here?

  All of a sudden I imagine I hear voices on the other side, which makes me hurry up and with a shaky hand, lock the bathroom door. I glance at the mirror, seeing nothing. Nothing but murky glass.

  And it is at that moment that someone gives a knock, and a strong jerk to the handle, and cries my name, “Ben? Open up! Please, Ben, open up!”

  I freeze, feeling too numb, too indifferent to even think of an answer, because I may have spent hours here, in this stuffy place, and who the hell cares? I, for one, do not care about anything and anybody. Really, I do not. Damn it all! I am free of emotion, and so should everyone be, in a perfect life. I have no pity, I tell myself, no pity for anyone—least of all for me.

  For a while, the noise! It agitates me. Then—silence.

  So I hang my head, and I am not really listening, not hearing a thing, not giving a damn. Then in a blink, tears well in my eyes, which is when the door bursts open, and dad is there, throwing his arms around me. And despite my resistance, he hugs me, and without saying a single word, he pulls me out of there—not before taking a moment to do something which to you, may seem dull—but to me, it is truly special: